We're the Ones Who Live: Richonne Shorts
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: A place for Richonne shorts of all kinds! Feel free to message requests for any Richonne and Grimes 2.0 fics you would like to see.
1. Healing

**A/N: I'm starting a story where I can start posting all of my one-shots, seeing as they're starting to get out of hand. Please feel free to either PM me requests on fanfiction or Tumblr. I love the challenge.**

 **The first one has slight spoilers for the season 7 finale. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Healing**

Healing. It was a task that Michonne and Rick were perfecting. Life falling in love, it had crept up on them, slowly at first, then appearing all at once, as though it had been simply lying in wait the whole time. It began in the unlikeliest of places, when both of them were at the lowest of lows, staring at each other through a prison fence. They had carried their guilt like a yolk, each of them bearing the weight of what this world had become, what they had become to survive.

It began with the physical, a stitched bullet wound, cuts and bruises patched up until they faded into scars. He had saved her life and she returned the favor, limping away from the battlefield time and time again until she'd lost count of how many cycles they had been through. Fight. Win. Repeat. It became a fact of life, the price you paid for surviving at the end of the world.

The stakes were higher now. They weren't just fighting to live, but for a _life_ , for a future for the children they raised together, for Glenn's unborn son or daughter. Losing was not an option; death was not an option. She wasn't leaving Rick alone in this world, no matter what enemy came knocking at their door. So, she fought tooth and nail, certain that Rick was doing the same. When she won, he found her, bleeding but breathing, their son by his side.

Now the healing began.

Michonne awoke to find Rick still beside her, clutching her hand as though it were a lifeline, his fingers slack within her own. The pleasure of a newly found mattress was diminished significantly without Rick's body pressed against hers. She wondered if they could manage it.

"Rick," it hurt to even speak, her face swollen to what she was sure were incredibly unflattering proportions.

He stirred immediately, his blue grey eyes almost glowing in the dark as they flickered open and immediately toward her.

"You ok, hun?" his voice was a raspy whisper, heavy with sleep and concern. She smiled, only managing to lift the corner of her lips.

"I'm ok," she assured him. He sat up, groping for a pitcher of water at his side. He enticed her to take a few swallows, the lukewarm water cooling her parched lips, before sipping some himself.

"What hurts?" he asked, seizing her hand again.

"Nothing," it was a bold-faced lie, but she had taken worse pain.

"You sure?" he wasn't fooled, leaning forward to inspect her in the low light. "Can I get you something?"

"Come here," she tugged gently at his arm, doing her best to scoot over in the narrow bed, making as much space as she could manage.

He followed her lead, trying not to wince at the wound on his waist that he was attempting to downplay. Michonne guided him beside her, arranging the blankets so that he could fit. It was warm in the room, the windows closed to the cool autumn breeze just outside, the temperature almost stifling to stave off the possibility of fever. Rosita lay indisposed just a few feet from the couple, Tara at her side. Rick settled quietly on the mattress beside his wife, his eyes flickering briefly at the two young women before moving back to Michonne's face.

"How's your hip?" she wished she had the wherewithal to lavish him with the attention he had given her the past few hours. She would not know the extent of the damage until she saw it with her own eyes.

"I'm fine," he insisted, smiling in the dark.

"It doesn't hurt?" she pressed, reaching for him.

"Nothing I can't handle," he brushed his lips against the back of her wrist.

"You should take some medicine," she suggested, glancing at the bedside table where the pain pills sat.

"So should you," he looked amused at her assertion. Michonne had to admit that he had a point. She did not like the way the medicine made her feel, as though she were filled with lead– not in pain, but unable to move. Numbness was a feeling she was well-acquainted with, and one that she was unwilling to revisit.

"Half," she compromised. Rick rolled over, securing the pill and the pitcher. He maneuvered them both up, breaking the chalky tablet apart between his thumb and forefinger. He coaxed one between her lips, then placed the other half in his own mouth, swallowing it dry. Michonne did not lay back down again until he'd taken a gulp of the water.

Within minutes, the pain began to dissipate, the heaviness washing over her like a wool blanket, pulling her to sleep. There wasn't much time to rest; the war had just begun. Still, she allowed herself the luxury of one night of vulnerability.

"Go to sleep," Rick's lips were at her ear, his voice authoritative, even as he lost the battle to his own exhaustion.

She fell asleep in his arms, feeling content despite the discomfort. Whatever this world was now, she still had Rick beside her.

They were going to win. It was only a matter of time.


	2. Redemption

**A/N: This story is courtesy of cuckoo91, who asked for a story exploring Rick's insecurity in 7A. Thank you for the prompt, and I hope you all enjoy!  
**

* * *

Rick's back was beginning to hurt from the hardwood beneath them. It was ridiculous that after months sleeping on forest floors and in dilapidated nooks and crannies, he could not get comfortable atop a pile of blankets.

He was getting soft.

The thought settled in his mind, seeping out of his subconscious and nesting in the forefront. Since the turn of the world, it had been the thing he feared most, the accusation that caused self-loathing. Shane had thought he was soft, and Carol. Perhaps it had crossed the mind of everyone he considered family now. And Lori—

Beside him, Michonne stirred. Rick chanced a glance at her over his shoulder. He was treated to the sight of her back, fully turned to him. He looked away quickly, directing his eyes to the ceiling. Negan had taken everything: Glenn and Abraham, their supplies, their beds, their guns, their food. Miraculously, his family was still there. Angry, grieving and worst of all, disappointed in him. But they were alive.

And that was what mattered most to Rick.

Carl made no secret of his dissention, glaring behind his bandage, storming around the house as though he was trying to bang holes into the ground. He was very much like his mother at times, a stark reminder of what life used to be. Lori's expressions were nestled within their son, appearing with laser-like precision whenever Carl was upset with his father. Carl might never understand why Rick had chosen this, chosen to fall in line with a bat-wielding psychopath. Nevertheless, he would stay safe, as long as Rick kept an eye on him.

Michonne though, she was another matter. She'd once told him that she was still with him, even amid one of his breakdowns. True to her word, she was still there, lying next to him. Lori had slept next to him as well, years in the same bed, trying not to touch one another with almost studious focus. Rick brought his eyes to Michonne again, her deep brown skin glowing in the soft light of the sunrise just beyond their window, begging to be touched. His hand flexed, frantic for the contact. She sighed in her sleep, shifting beneath the covers. Rick swallowed thickly, rolling away from her and closing his eyes. He feigned sleep when she awoke a few minutes later, crawling out of their pathetic excuse for a bed without so much as a kiss.

They spent the morning in silence while Carl moped, outwardly hostile towards his father's plans. Rick wanted her to come on this run, to stay by his side. She had already declined. He was afraid to ask her again.

Aaron charitably excused himself as Carl groused. Rick ignored his son, too tired to fight him again. Michonne followed quietly behind him, her expression unreadable. Rick turned to her, swallowing thickly.

"If you change your mind, we're headed north," he passed her a walkie talkie, hoping against his better judgement that she would agree.

"Good luck," she accepted the device, her eyes trained on the floor of their home.

Rick nodded, trying to ignore the clenching in his chest. "Yeah. I'll see you soon." Swiftly, he moved in to kiss her cheek.

Her hand was quicker, catching his face against one of her palms, pushing his head back firmly. Rick felt a wave of nausea, a profound sense of panic. She was denying him. He forced his eyes upward to look at her, expecting to see disgust written all over her face.

Instead, she looked at him purposefully, almost reverently, her dark gaze pulling him deeper as she reached for him, cupping his face between both palms. Slowly, sweetly, she leaned in, pulling him down towards her until her lips brushed his own. He kissed back tentatively for a moment, unsure whether this was some new trick. She angled her head, raising to her tip toes in order to get closer. Rick's body responded on instinct, pushing past the doubt until he had her folded in his grasp.

Michonne kissed him like Carl wasn't simply one room over, sulking. She kissed him as though they hadn't lost their beds, their dignity, their supplies. She kissed him like Glenn was still alive, like Abraham was right up the road. She kissed him like Negan did not exist. He soaked up her affections like a sponge, greedily accepting all she had to offer. He could have stayed forever in that kiss. Even as she pulled back, dusting his lips with a few loving pecks, he missed the pressure of her mouth on his, the feeling of her wrapped around him.

They looked at one another for a long moment. He recognized her expression immediately. It was the same one he had first seen weeks ago when he had leaned forward to kiss her on the couch. It was the expression that made him sure that this was different, that Michonne was unlike anything or anyone that had ever happened to him.

She sighed shakily, lowering herself back to the balls of her feet, one hand sliding down his arm until it came to rest against his palm. She squeezed, hard.

"Thank you." The words left his mouth before he could even register them. There was so much to say, so many things brimming just below the surface that he wished he could tell her. Instead, he nodded, moving away from her while he still had the strength to do it. He followed Aaron out of his front door, his mind spinning.

When he returned home, she wasn't there. Negan was in Alexandria, two more of Rick's people were dead, Eugene had been kidnapped, Carl had staged an outright mutiny against the Saviors and Rosita was bleeding from a separate failed assassination attempt. He cleaned up the mess, quietly ordering around the now even more somber citizens, choking back his rage, his exhaustion, and his grief. There was work to be done, so Rick worked, trying to push the worry for Michonne to the back of his mind.

She found him in the jail cell where he had retreated to be alone. Just the sight of her standing in the dark doorway was enough to set his pulse racing. He leapt to his feet, rushing towards her, faltering for the briefest of moments before he surged forward to wrap her in a hug. Her arms came around his neck, squeezing, her heart pounding between them. She pulled back, putting space between them. Again.

"I found what I was looking for," she met him with her unflinching eye contact. Rick watched her silently. "I wanted to go with you and Aaron," she continued, undaunted. "But I couldn't. I had to go my way."

Rick's stomach roiled again. Michonne laughed, a surprising sound, her eyes darting away as though she was looking into some memory. "But when I found it, I realized that I didn't want it to be my way. I wanted it to be _ours_. Me and you."

The pressure behind his eyes threatened to spill forward as fear gave way to a tidal wave of relief. Rick glanced at the dirty floor beneath them, attempting to get his bearings. Michonne did not relent.

"We're outnumbered; it's not even close," she stepped closer to him. "But that doesn't change the way that I feel. Because it doesn't change the way that things are. We're still alive, Rick. So much has happened, so much that we shouldn't have lived through. But in spite of it, or maybe _because_ of it, we did. We're still here. The two of us. We're still standing, and we're going to keep standing, so what do we do with that? How do we make that mean something? We're the ones who get things done… We're the ones who live." She was dangerously close to crying, but she lifted a finger, pointing at him. "That's why we have to fight."

Her words poured faster now, the list of reasons to fight coming thick. Rick listened, his eyes unmoving from the face of this warrior woman in front of him. They hadn't spoken in days and now she was laying bare her soul.

"We can do this," she paused, sniffling quietly. "But only if _we_ do this." Wide brown eyes turned to him questioningly.

There was so much he wanted to say, entire books of poetry he would happily spin for this woman before him, if only he had the skill to do so. Instead, he said what he could. "Yeah, I know that now."

She began to cry, the tears cutting down her dark cheeks, even as a smile graced her face. Rick took a step towards her, reiterating, "I know that now," he repeated. She was in his arms before he had even finished his sentence. Her hands tangled in his hair, her body pressed flush against his. Rick knew that he would never feel anything half so pleasurable, even if he lived a hundred more years. He wanted her then and there, wanted to feel her skin on his own, but she deserved better than a cold, dark cell.

Instead, he took her home, back to their bed. She came willingly to that pile of blankets on the floor, clutching at him like he had won the world just for her.

"Rick," his name was a mantra, falling from her lips like a prayer. He pressed his lips into her skin, whispering promises against her, hoping they were enough.

He would fight. He had to fight. Alexandria was worth it. His children were worth it. The woman in his arms was worth it.

"Michonne," it was the only word he could think to say, the only one that mattered. Rick knew he was crying, felt the moisture dripping down both of their faces as they came together, his cheek against hers. She clutched at him, her nails scraping down his back, her gasps of pleasure tickling his ear as he moved. She pulled at his hair, nipped at his lips, raised her hips to meet his own, taking all that he had to offer her.

She fell apart with a moan, pulling him with her until he collapsed on top of her, sated. She stretched beneath him, smiling at him in the dark of their bedroom.

"We're going to win," Rick assured her, his voice a raspy whisper against her skin.

"I know," she said simply, planting a series of soft kisses across his face. With a contented sigh, she fell asleep, still beneath him.

Rick experienced another sleepless night, but this time without doubt, his mind strategizing, plotting.

They could do this. They would do it together.

"I love you," he whispered this confession into Michonne's hair, resolving to prove it to her. He took her hand, curling the slim digits between his own, watching her sleep, wondering how a person could feel so lucky, even at the end of the world.


	3. Homecoming

**A/N: A combination of prompts from Yjaxninja on Fanfiction and Jasminesd on Tumblr. Michonne is back home after the battle against the Saviors and the Garbage Pail Kids. Rick and Carl dote on her.  
**

* * *

"Carl, hold the door."

"Rick, I promise you—"

"I've got it!"

Carl leapt eagerly ahead of them, wrenching the front door open as though he was attempting to yank it off its hinges. Michonne's protests fell on deaf ears. Rick was practically carrying her, her feet just brushing the ground as they maneuvered her inside.

"Go grab some extra blankets," Rick's next instruction to his son sent Carl scurrying for the upstairs closet. Michonne braced herself for the task of climbing the stairs, but Rick turned her firmly to the living room.

"Where?" she began to question.

"You're not sleeping up there on the floor," his tone left no space for argument. "I'll find us a bed next week. Until then…" he deposited Michonne gently on the living room couch.

She sank deeply into several layers of pillows and blankets, nearly losing sight of Rick as the warm fabrics enveloped her. Carl came thundering back down the stairs, clutching a stack of even more blankets.

"Is this enough, dad?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"Should be," Rick gratefully accepted them from his son, setting the stack on one of the armrests.

"Where's Judith?" Michonne cast her eyes about for her daughter, desperate to see the little girl.

"Go get your sister," Rick delivered the mandate to Carl. The teenager was already moving out of the room. Rick immediately set about adjusting the blankets and pillows, creating a cocoon around Michonne.

"Rick, you don't have to—"

"Hush," he silenced her firmly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She closed her eyes against his affections, pleased that for the first time in nearly a week, it did not pain her to have contact with him.

"You're hurt too," she reminded him. Rick shrugged as though his wound was inconsequential.

"I'm fine," he assured her. Behind them, the sounds of Judith babbling delightedly grew louder as she approached with her brother.

"Rick, is my face?" A sharp spike of panic went through her. She didn't want to scare Judith.

"It's beautiful," he punctuated his point by running a finger over her features, smiling at her in that way he did when they were alone. Michonne leaned up, ignoring the protesting in her ribs, to brush a kiss over his lips.

"Look who's here, Judy," Carl's voice was bright, the tone he reserved only for his sister.

Judith's babbling increased, her excitement blossoming at the sight of all her favorite people in one room. Carl brought her carefully to the couch, balancing her between Michonne's legs and a pile of cushions. Judith immediately began to bounce her hands on Michonne, a familiar game they often played. Michonne smiled, sitting up to drop kisses all over the little girl's face.

"Carl and Enid are going to keep her today," Rick spoke up, smiling as he toyed with his daughter's hair. "So you can rest."

"Rick, I—"

"You're done taking breaks, I know," he smiled indulgently at her.

"Just one more day, mom," Carl requested, already reaching for Judith.

"Just one more," Rick echoed, reaching for her hand.

"All right," she gave in, taking in her family in front of her. "Don't go far," she requested of her surrogate son. "I want us to all eat dinner together."

"Deal," Carl seized Judith, bringing her back up to his chest with a flourish that set the toddler giggling.

"Bring Enid," Michonne added.

"I will," Carl promised. He paused for a moment before leaning in, squeezing her lightly. Michonne wrapped her arms around him and crushed him into a hug. Carl chuckled against her. "Need anything else?"

Michonne shook her head, grinning. "I've got your dad to boss around."

"Have a good day son," Rick sent Carl off with a pat to the back of his neck.

"Stay safe," Michonne added, leaning backwards into her fortress of pillows.

Carl was gone with a nod and a shouted "I love you," slamming back out of the front door.

"It's just you and me," Rick smiled at Michonne, pushing a loose loc out of her face. "You should take a nap," he suggested.

"Come take one with me," she reached for him, feeling very much like Judith as she attempted to coax Rick into joining her.

"I don't want to take up your space," he attempted to stand but Michonne stilled him with an arm around his wrist.

"Rick," it was her turn to be bossy, "get over here."

He smiled, his whole face wrinkling in amusement. "Yes ma'am," he complied, removing his shoes and sliding behind her. She guided his arms around her, her body relaxing at the feel of him against her.

"I'm glad I'm home," she exhaled, burrowing closer to him.

Rick maneuvered his face into the crook of her shoulder, laying his cheek against hers in a well-practiced move. "I'm glad you're home too," he whispered.

"It's been a while since we've been on the couch like this," she mused.

She could feel his grin widening. "I'm pretty sure I remember the last time."

"Yeah?" she teased.

"You kissed me," his hand toyed with the edges of her shirt, the fingers just brushing the skin at her stomach.

" _I_ kissed _you_?" she asked incredulously.

"Yup. You were so overcome by my gift that you practically threw yourself at me," his laugh danced across his words.

"Oh really?" Michonne squirmed against him, attempting to face him. Rick assisted her, spinning her around. "I seem to remember you holding my hand."

"And then you kissed me," he reiterated, laughing outright now.

"I kissed you back," she corrected.

He shrugged. "Semantics," he ended the argument by re-enacting the night in question, pressing his lips against her.

Michonne responded eagerly, desperate for the contact that she hadn't had in a week. Rick indulged her for a moment. When she wrapped her arms around his shoulder and lifted her leg to lay it across his, he pulled back.

"Hun, wait," he leaned back, inspecting her. Michonne knew why he paused and wasted no time in objecting.

"You want me to feel better?" she asked.

Rick nodded, looking skeptical. "Of course."

"This always makes me feel better," she closed the distance between them, slanting her mouth back over his. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, until a low groan escaped him. Michonne smiled into their kiss.

"Let me know if I hurt you," he gave in as her hands fingered the buttons of his black shirt.

"You won't," she promised him.

Rick drew the blankets atop them, shielding them from the possibility of anyone walking in and getting an eyeful. He grinned cheekily at her as he pulled the fabric over their heads, creating a fort on the couch. It was difficult to disrobe, especially with Rick treating her like porcelain, but they managed. Michonne got her first true glance at the wound Jadis had inflicted on Rick. She eyed the gunshot with distaste, resolving to make that trash woman pay for it as soon as possible.

"I'm ok," Rick reiterated, redirecting Michonne's attention. Thoughts of vengeance fled her mind as Rick trailed wet kisses down her body, folding himself beneath her, guiding her legs over his shoulders. Coherent thought eluded her entirely when his mouth closed in on her.

"Rick," she gasped, grasping a fistful of his hair. It only served to egg him on. He pressed in deeper, working her over in his mouth, sending her spiraling towards climax faster than he ever had before. He did not relent, groaning with every gasp that she took, the vibrations making her forget that she'd spent the last week in a makeshift hospital. She broke against him with a scream, tears trailing unbidden down her face.

He released her, crawling slowly back up her body until he was behind her again, his hands gently caressing her exposed skin. He dusted kisses across her shoulders and neck. Michonne reached behind her, hooking her arm around the back of his neck.

"I love you," the statement came out as a wet gasp, the tears still flowing.

"I love you too," he moaned into her ear, guiding her leg underneath his arm, punctuating his statement by entering her in one smooth motion.

He whispered promises against her neck, assuring her that he planned to win the world for her, spinning tales of what life would be like once the Saviors were gone. It was all Michonne could do to hold on, her body responding to the man behind her, her heart swelling with every motion and every word.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," the proclamation drew another scream from Michonne, his deep southern accent rasping against her ear, making her break apart.

She collapsed against him and Rick was quick to follow, going tense then all at once limp.

"I love you," it was all she could think to say, the only thing that mattered right now. "I love you."

"I'm glad you're home," Rick exhaled, already beginning to fall into their planned nap. Michonne followed him quickly, clutching his hand beneath the blankets, falling into her first painless sleep in a week.


	4. Mobsters and Money (Richonne AU)

**A/N: This one is a little out of the norm, an AU Fic for enjoi16 on Tumblr who asked, "If you can I'd like a story about Rick as a mob boss or henchman collecting from Michonne's sister."**

 **Please let me know what you think about this one! I hope you all enjoy.**

* * *

"We got one more night of this man, don't quit on me now."

Rick Grimes cracked his neck, adjusting the tie around his neck. "I don't understand why we have to dress like this."

"Quit your griping," Shane Walsh tugged on his own suit jacket, checking his tangle of thick dark curls in the mirror before he turned back to his partner.

"At least you get to wear black," Rick couldn't resist the urge from one more small complaint. "I look like I'm looking for a winter home in Florida."

This comment drew a laugh from Shane. His partner eyes him up and down. "Maybe they thought it'd bring out them pretty blue eyes," he teased.

Rick rolled the eyes in question, smoothing his brunette hair back, trying to get the ringlets to lay flat. Nobody respected a mobster with curly q's hanging all over their head. He had to look the part, for one more night. "Silver suits," he toyed with the lapels, still muttering in displeasure.

"They let you keep your beard," Shane shrugged, playfully jostling his old friend on the chin. "Now let's get going."

"What are we doing tonight?" Rick tucked his gun into the holster beneath his jacket, checking the python once more before covering it.

"Collections." Shane had the car keys in hand and was already headed for the door. "Got half a dozen of them coming in."

"The club?" Rick resisted the urge to sigh. He hated the club.

"That's right," Shane smirked knowingly at him as they made their way to the curb. "So wipe that sad sack look of your face. Worse views in the world then the ones in that club."

"It ain't a sad look; it's my' I don't give a shit face'," Rick caught the keys his partner tossed him, sliding into the driver's seat.

"Well, your 'I don't give a shit face' is the exact reason why you ain't having any fun on this job," Shane flopped into the passenger's seat, shoving sunglasses up his crooked nose despite the fact that the sun was going down. Rick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Shane looked the part, that was for sure. This came easier to him than it did for Rick.

"We're not doing this for fun," Rick reminded him, starting the ignition.

"We're doing it to pay the bills," Shane finished. "Doesn't mean it can't be fun."

Silently, Rick steered up the street. One more night. Just one more, and he was out.

* * *

"Michonne, I can't thank you enough—"

Michonne cut her sister off, holding up a hand. "This is the last time I do this for you."

"I promise, I didn't mean to…"

"You never mean to," Michonne's long locs flipped over her shoulder as she whipped her head around to glance at the woman trailing after her, "Yet, here we are, Sasha."

"It was Bob," Sasha peered up at Michonne through her layers of curly hair, the excuses coming fast and thick. "You know how much debt he left us with when he died. I had to do something. They were going to take the house," she implored, her eyes filling with moisture. "I would ask mom and dad but I don't want them to worry."

Michonne did know, all too well. Bob had been a good man but also one with serious vices. His alcoholism had driven him to an early grave, and left his family struggling to stay afloat. In her desperation, Sasha had turned to the only people who would give her a loan. Now they had come to collect.

"Which is why I'm helping you," Michonne came to a full stop, turning to face her little sister. Michonne had always been a sucker for that puppy dog look, especially when Sasha was clearly afraid. "They're not going to take the house. You and the kids will be fine." She had just enough life savings to ensure that her nephews and nieces wouldn't live in the shadow of their father's decision making.

Sasha's voice nearly broke in relief, a dry sob escaping her. "Chonne, if there's anything I can do—"

"You can tell me where to find this guy," Michonne said firmly. She needed to do this before she thought better of it.

"He hangs out at this club. It's kind of a rough place," Sasha's face contorted into an expression of worry.

"I can handle it," Michonne was already rooting around in her closet.

"It's not really your crowd," Sasha watched her skeptically as Michonne rifled through her clothing.

"Do _you_ want to do it then?" she popped her head out to glance at her sister, one eyebrow raised.

"No," Sasha swallowed nervously, toying with the duvet on Michonne's bed. Satisfied, Michonne continued her search. "What's the plan?" her sister asked.

"The plan," Michonne emerged, hanger in hand, "Is to go in and pay him his money." She held up the garment, swaying the scarce fabric in front of her sister's face, "Wearing this."

"Why that?" Sasha asked, eyebrows jumping at the outfit.

Michonne smiled slightly. "I have to dress the part. I'll draw less attention."

Sasha's eyes widened. "I don't know about that," she mused skeptically. "Does that event count as a dress?"

"It'll get the job done," with a wink, Michonne began to put her strategy into action.

* * *

Shane rolled the stack of bills neatly in his hand, depositing them safely into the metal box on the table in front of him. Rick stretched out beside him, trying to get comfortable on the leather couch. The air around them was drenched in the smell of too much perfume and cigarettes, the smoke throwing patterns against the wall as it floated up, reflected in strobe light. Rick had long gotten used to the sounds of the relentless bass as the music pumped, and even found that he liked it. It was easy to ignore the world when you couldn't hear it.

"That's almost all of it," Shane announced, leaning into his partner. He took a long pull of the beer in front of him.

"Good," Rick squinted out into the club, eyes on alert.

"You gotta relax, man," Shane warned. "You're scaring folks off."

"Doesn't look like it," a gaggle of women was stationed just outside the red-velvet rope, staring in at the pair like they were animals in a zoo. Rick supposed they were pretty enough, but at a point, they all began to look the same.

"You want me to send them away?" Shane was already waving the bouncer to bring them over.

"Nah," Rick took a long drag of his own beer. "Might as well."

The women flounced in, their heels clacking lowly against the concrete floor. They were on the men at once, draping themselves artfully over every surface.

"Hi there," a blonde maneuvered herself in between the two of them.

"Hey yourself," Shane cocked a dark brow at her. Rick remained silent.

"You don't talk?" she attempted to coax Rick, batting adhesive eyelashes.

"He's the strong, silent type," Shane teased. Rick snorted at him, rolling his eyes.

"And what type are you?" the blonde's attentions wandered back to Shane and Rick returned to his quiet study of the club, even as hostesses milled in and out, setting down drinks.

"Who's our last one?" Rick drew Shane's focus back to the matter at hand. The blonde had somehow worked her way onto Shane's lap. His partner leaned back to make eye contact.

"Some woman, Sasha something. Think you can handle it?" Shane asked, even as his new friend dusted kisses up his neck.

"I've got it," Rick assured him, exhaling.

"Good." Shane disappeared into the cluster of women. Rick glanced at his watch.

"Rick," the deep voice of a club employee brought him out of his reverie. "There's someone here to see you."

Both Shane and Rick glanced up with interest.

"Holy shit," Shane mumbled, eyes widening.

"Bring her in," Rick managed to get out, swallowing thickly.

"You sure you've got it?" Shane was all business at once.

Rick cut him off with a smirk. "I've got this one."

* * *

Michonne came to a stop, teetering nervously on her heels. Her bare legs brushed the fabric of the divider in front of her. She could just make out the VIP section behind her behemoth escort. She took a deep breath, her grasp tightening on the clutch in her hands. Silently, she catalogued, taking in the sight of what seemed to be a dozen of women and employees, all cavorting around as if this was the party of the century. Two figures were at the center, stationed side by side. As the bouncer stepped aside, she got her first unobstructed view.

The pair were almost comical at first glance, one dark and surly, outfitted all in black, his expression suggesting danger and a good time, a vibe that the other women in this corner of the club seemed to be picking up on. The other decked out in silver, his hair slicked back, blue eyes peering at her from beneath a few wayward curls and a healthy crop of facial hair. There was something about both sets of eyes that increased her nervousness.

Silver suit waved her forward, gesturing impatiently. She strode forward purposefully, determined to hold eye contact until she stood just before them.

"You're Rick?" she was pleased at how steady her voice sounded.

"Depends on who's looking," the southern accent caught her off-guard. He was gazing up at her intensely, obviously sizing her up. To his left, the dark suited man was openly ogling her, his eyes raking up her exposed legs. The blonde near him began to vie for his attentions, redoubling her efforts to return to his lap.

"I'm here for my sister," Michonne turned back to Rick.

"And why's your sister not here for herself?" dark eyes spoke up, but Rick raised a hand, silencing him.

"You have something to give me?" he asked, straight to business.

"I do," she nodded, her long locs falling forward as she set about opening her clutch.

Suddenly, Rick was on his feet, his hand reaching out firmly, halting her movement.

"Not out here, are you crazy?" his accent was raspy, authoritative. She felt herself taking a step backwards. "Follow me," he bent down to polish off the last of his beer, then stood up again, straightening his suit.

"Follow you where?" Michonne glanced around, wishing she had brought a friend to back her up.

"Look, I don't have all day," Rick glanced down at his watch, a simple time piece for a mob enforcer. "We can do this now, or I can go visit your sister."

His point hit home immediately. "Fine," nodding, she followed him.

"Be good," the sardonic voice of the dark-suited man chased them as Rick led her through a doorway just behind them.

* * *

Rick was well-versed in club dresses, and until this point in his life, he suspected he had seen every style that spandex, glitter, and sequins could be fashioned into. The woman in front of him made him reconsider his stance. Her dress was black, the sheer sleeves clinging to her thin, sculpted arms like a second skin, dripping down her shoulders and darkening as it went, the ebon fabric clutching at her curves as though she had painted it on. It was held together by a gold zipper, running from her breasts to the tops of her thighs, daring him to expose the flesh beneath it. Her legs were on full display from below that zipper, and her breasts bouncing just above. Her hair, dark brown and twisted artfully into locs, completed the picture, framing a face with wide mahogany eyes and full, parted lips. She stepped inside the backroom, her expression calm but the slight shaking of her hands betraying her.

Rick remembered what he was there for. He needed to get this over quickly. There was work to do tonight.

"Well?" he asked expectantly. She was staring at him, her large dark irises taking him in. He wondered how she saw him, what he looked like through her eyes.

"I have it all," she opened her purse, extracting a rubber banded wad of cash.

He eyed it for a second. "It's not enough," his announcement was matter-of-fact, almost cold.

"It's what she borrowed," The woman's tone suggested disbelief. Her fingers tightened around the money.

"Looks like it," Rick nodded, glancing back down at the bills. "That's the problem. You don't get a loan without interest."

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, contemplating some course of action. "Fine," she bit out, exasperated. "I'll get you interest."

"You will," he nodded, his lips quirking into the hint of a smirk. It wasn't too many people who got openly irritated with him these days.

"Just take this, and I promise—"

"It's all or nothing," Rick cut her off again. He kept his hands in his pockets, refusing to touch the money.

"That's not fair," she protested.

"Who said anything about fair?" Rick laughed, hating how detached her sounded. "You should go home. Let Sasha handle herself."

She extended the money out one more time, "I'm not leaving until you take this," she asserted.

"Then I guess you're not leaving," he took a step forward but she did not relent. "What's your name?" he asked her, staring her down.

"Michonne," she titled her chin defiantly, meeting his eyes.

"Michonne," he repeated, liking the way the syllables danced off his tongue. "Go home."

"She's my sister," the woman took a deep breath. "I'll do whatever it takes."

He seized her wrist, noting the way her pulse sped up at his touch. Closing the miniscule distance between them, he leaned forward, his voice dangerously low. "Take the money and go home."

Her chest was heaving, the fear plain on her face now. Still, she opened her mouth. "I can't," she said simply.

From his own wrist, his watch began to beep. He was out of time.

"Fine," he released her, watching her scurry backwards. "Then stay here."

He left the room, taking care to lock the bolt behind him.

* * *

Michonne stood in the middle of the room, the hollow click of the lock echoing in her ears. Her stomach was roiling, her heart hammering. There was only one door, one means of escape. She backed up slowly, contemplating another way out. The furnishings were bare, save for a plush leather couch pushed against one wall and a rug beneath her feet. She could only imagine what purpose a room like this served, could only speculate as to what a man like Rick could do to her in here.

Frantic, she shoved the money back in her purse, scrambling instead for her phone. She cursed at her lack of service, fumbling with the phone, attempting to connect to any signal possible. If she could just call Sasha, maybe she could make it out of this.

From beyond the wall, the pulsing of the music was drowned out by a tremendous crash and a series of immediate screams. Michonne's blood ran ice cold at the sound. She rushed forward, rattling the door knob. Someone had stopped the music, but the screaming continued, this time with the sounds of men's voices. She had only a moment to contemplate whether she should stay quiet or yell for help when she heard an unusual sound for a dance club: dogs barking. She pressed her ear to the wall, desperate to get some clarity on the situation. Fortunately, the next words were very clear.

"Atlanta PD! Get your hands on your head!"

* * *

"Where's the girl?" Shane's gun was drawn as he cleared the corners, ignoring the scores of panicked dancers now frantic for a way out of the club.

"Back room," Rick joined him, drawing his python. "Locked the door. She's not going anywhere."

"Good," Shane nodded then began shouting, creating a path for the two of them. All around, uniformed officers were slapping patrons into handcuffs, rounding up dozens of their associates. Shane glanced at Rick, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It was fun while it lasted," he shrugged.

"Sure," Rick laughed quietly.

"Hell, I might even miss it," Shane continued, watching as a group of police ran towards them.

"No you won't. We're too good at this." Rick's grin widened at the sight of a familiar redhead with a handle bar mustache.

"Walsh, Grimes, you sons of bitches." Sergeant Abraham Ford came to a stop in front of them, laughing. "You two pulled it off."

"I told you we would," Rick cocked a brow.

"When do we not?" Shane spoke up at the exact same time.

"Don't get cocky," Ford warned, "Let's get these guys bagged and tagged and finish up." He glanced around the now mostly empty club. "Looks like a good time," he mused.

"Not as fun as you'd think," Rick corrected.

"The good shit's in the back," Shane informed him.

Michonne. The thought came rushing back to Rick.

"I'll take you," he volunteered immediately.

"I'll come too," Shane followed as they made their way to the back of the building. "Can't have that girl in there thinking I'm some kind of heartless monster."

"Better not tell her the truth then," Ford teased. "And what girl?"

"Just wait till you see her," Shane grinned as Rick hurriedly threw the lock and opened the door.

* * *

Michonne jumped back as the men pushed inside. Rick was back now, as was his accomplice, and a hulking ginger of a man. All three of them stared at her, the redhead in confusion, the ebon-haired man in amusement, and Rick with concern.

"Michonne," he called out to her, glancing nervously at her. Beside him, his partner eyed her curiously.

"You ok, ma'am?" he repeated Rick's sentiment. He seemed less scary now in the light of the room. He was even smiling.

Michonne quietly took in the scene in front of her, her eyes finding the gold badge draped around the redhead's neck. "You're a cop?" she asked.

"I am," he answered, holding up the badge by its chain.

"He's a cop?" she nodded in Rick's direction.

"He is," the redhead confirmed. "And this idiot over here," he gestured to the swarthy man beside him. "I'm Sergeant Ford, this is Detective Walsh and Detective Grimes," he nodded at Rick. "Sorry if they startled you."

"We had to make it convincing," Walsh explained, smiling at her. Rick continued his quiet study of her.

Michonne nodded, tugging down the hem of her dress. "I want to go home," she announced unceremoniously.

"We're going to need a statement…" Ford began.

"I got her," Rick stepped in. Michonne did not protest. Ford nodded, eager to get the night on with.

"Don't take all night," he instructed.

* * *

"You're really a cop?" Michonne's question was quiet as he escorted her from the room, guiding her carefully through a labyrinth of discarded cups and evidence.

He nodded. "Been working this case for a while," it was an understatement, really, but she didn't need all of those details.

"Is that the reason you wouldn't take my money?" she asked.

Rick resisted the urge to smile. "What money?" he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Ma'am, I have to advise you that any money exchanged at this club will be seized and held in police custody for the duration of the investigation." His tone was all official, as though he was reading from a rule book. She looked puzzled for a moment. He grinned slightly at her, willing her to understand. Enlightenment dawned on her face.

"Good thing there wasn't any money then," she said quickly, smiling back. The simple gesture caused a tremendous change in her demeanor. Her smile was stunning, brightening her whole expression, as though a light had been turned on.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he needed her to know, even if they never crossed paths again. "Part of the act," he held the door for her as they stepped back onto the street. The cold night air immediately bit at her skin, sending her shivering. Without a pause, Rick removed his silver suit jacket and draped it over her.

"Thank you, R—Officer," she accepted it gratefully.

"He nodded. "Can I call you a ride?" he secretly hoped she would ask him for one.

"Sasha's coming," Michonne held up her phone, her smile faltering just the slightest.

"Take care then, Miss Williams," Rick smiled, pushing back the acute sensation of disappointment as her sister's Toyota pulled up to the curb.

"What about your jacket?" Michonne made to remove it. He stopped her.

"It never suited me," his grin widened. "Keep it."

* * *

Michonne found herself returning his smile as he walked away, even as Sasha burst began to question her inside the car, frantic.

"What the hell happened?" the younger woman's voice was shaking.

"You owe me, that's what," Michonne slid into the car, happy that the strangest night of her life thus far was ending. As Sasha directed the car away, Michonne's eyes strayed to Officer Rick Grimes. He was still watching them. He raised his hand, giving them a small wave that she returned. She pulled the coat closer around her. It smelled like him.

"Holy shit, that's the guy. The mob enforcer. Are you ok?" her sister whipped her head around. "Are you wearing his jacket?"

Michonne ignored the latter querie, choosing to only address the first one. "I am. And you are too."

"What _happened_?" Sasha was desperate.

Michonne just laughed. "It's hard to believe," she began.

* * *

"Rick!" Walsh called his name across the office, heading straight for his desk.

"What is it?" Rick tugged at his tie. It felt good to be back at work, back with the people he knew and respected. Still, it took some getting used to.

"You've got a visitor," Walsh grinned cheekily at him, gesturing to the woman behind him.

Rick recognized her at once. Her dark skin was mostly covered now, the jeans hiding her long legs, her shape disguised by a sleek black coat. Her hair was loose around her head. She was just as stunning dressed down as she had been in that club.

"Miss Williams," he was on his feet at once, ignoring Walsh's quiet snicker.

"Officer Grimes," she took a nervous breath, her lips quirking slightly.

"What can I do for you?" he asked her, trying to keep his demeanor professional.

"I read about the sting," she began. "You put away a lot of men. You saved my sister, saved her house," she broke off, glancing down at the linoleum tile.

"I'm glad I could help," Rick wished he sounded less like a schoolboy with a crush. It had been easier to stay composed when he was playing a role. Now he was back to regular Rick, slightly awkward in social situations with beautiful women.

"I wanted to thank you," Michonne drew her head up, meeting his eyes.

"You don't have to do that," he assured her.

This time, she cut him off. "I want to. Can I take you to dinner?" she took a step towards him.

Shane was openly watching them now. Rick pointedly ignored the glance of his best friend. "Only if you let me pay," he accepted.

She smiled. "I can do that."

"Then it's a date," Rick grinned right back at her.

* * *

"How did you say you two met?"

Rick tightened his grip on the woman beside him, nervous under Michonne's parent's glances.

"Work," she was quicker on her feet than he was, downplaying the situation in one smooth sentence. "Last year."

"Through your firm?" her mother sought clarification.

"No; I just stumbled on him when he was working a case," Michonne smiled at him. Rick relaxed under her loving gaze. He dropped a kiss on her palm, their hands twisted together.

"It's actually a very cute story," Sasha teased, shooting her sister a look.

"I'm sure it's not one they want to hear," Michonne said pointedly, raising a brow.

"Maybe some other time," Sasha acquiesced. Still, she winked covertly at Rick. He quirked his lips at her.

Their father nodded, his dark eyes boring holes into Rick. "So, Officer, what are your intentions for our daughter?" he questioned.

"Well, sir, it's funny that you ask," Rick reached into his pocket, fingering the small velvet box that had been on his mind for weeks now.

He pulled it out, delighting in the gasp that the occupants of the room released simultaneously. Even so, it did not compare to the exhilaration in hearing the next word out of Michonne's mouth.

"Yes!"


	5. Revenge

**A/N: An incredibly tiny ficlet I penned in between writing for personal projects. Happy Easter, readers! Have a dose of Richonne Revenge!**

* * *

"Are you ready?"

Rick leaned closer, his lip just brushing his wife's ear. Michonne was crouched beside him, her round, dark eyes fixed on a point ahead of them.

"Ready," she nodded, her gaze still fixed.

"You remember the plan?" he prompted her again, nervous now.

"Of course." Still she did not look at him, but slowly unsheathed her katana.

"Michonne," Rick tugged gently at a stray loc of hair, directing her attention towards him. "We agreed-"

"I know," her eyes flicked at him for the briefest of moments. "I see her, Rick."

Rick followed Michonne's stare upwards to the top of the metal wall. Two bodies were silhouetted against the rising sun, one tall and lanky, the other sporting an unconventional haircut.

"Hon, we talked about this. I'm fine." Rick absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his waist.

"She won't be," Michonne's grip tightened around the handle of her sword.

Rick opened his mouth once more to utter calming words, his hand clasping around the smooth, dark skin on her arm. A laugh floated down through the quiet morning air, a sardonic sound that Rick was familiar with. Rick filled with anger almost immediately, his rage removing all other thought.

"On three?" Michonne bounced lightly, adjusting her feet beneath her.

"On three," he agreed. He paused, leaning over to kiss Michonne. She tilted her head, returning his affections, her eyes leaving the two targets for the first time that morning.

"See you when it's done," Rick removed his python, thumbing the safety.

"See you when it's done," she echoed.

As Rosita's explosion rocked the front gate, Michonne and Rick stood together, running into battle.


	6. Reconciliation

**A/N: This one is in response to a request from cuckoo91 who asked: Would it be possible to request a Divorce and reconciliation fic, where Rick wins Michonne back on the first anniversary of their divorce, please?**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Mom?"

Michonne looked up to where her son was sitting. Carl had paused his video game and come to his feet, a sure-fire sign that something was wrong. Video game time was a cherished hour in her house, a rare quiet moment when the younger two children had retired to bed and it was just her and her eldest awake. Though Carl was not her child by blood, their bond ran deep. After the divorce, Carl had chosen to live with her, refusing to be separated from his brother and sister.

"What is it?" Michonne marked her page with a scrap of paper, setting her book down on the coffee table. She glanced curiously at her son. He was bent over his phone, his long dark tresses shielding his face. He had refused to cut his hair in the year since his father left. Michonne did not have the heart to impose a haircut on him.

"Dad is coming." He flicked his hair out of his eyes, his expression betraying his concern.

"To see you?" Michonne attempted to keep her question light, but her pulse was already racing. She mentally calculated how much time she would have to speak with her ex to be considered polite.

"No," Carl sat his phone down, giving his mother his full attention. "He asked me if _you_ are here."

"He probably just wants to avoid me," Michonne chuckled weakly, already reaching for her book again. She refused to entertain the idea that Rick wanted to speak with her. It was his lack of communication that had led them down this road in the first place. The proceedings had gone so quickly; one night they were fighting and then Rick had left, sullen and resigned. The paperwork went through in record time, the custody deal simple, and the child support checks came on time. Her marriage had dissolved in the blink of an eye, ten years melting away like ice left in the sun, evaporating as though it had never been there to begin with.

"I think he wants to talk to you," Carl ventured, setting his controller to the side.

Michonne made a sound deep in her throat, unable and unwilling to express her opinions on that to their son.

"When is the last time you talked?" Carl asked, his full attention on his mother.

Michonne kept her eyes on the book, scanning the printed words without processing them.

Carl was undaunted. "I think Dad misses you."

"What makes you think that?" she flicked her eyes back to Carl's face, truly curious. Carl had taken their separation stoically, remaining the rock for Judith and Andre, refusing to express his sadness. He was so like his father that Michonne worried about him. They could tuck their emotions away so neatly, power through situations as though they did not affect them at all. Even after the shooting, her ex refused to open up. Michonne had nagged, attempting to get through to him. Her efforts cost her their marriage.

"He talks about you a lot. _All_ of the time. He's always asking how you are, what you're doing, if you seem happy…" Carl rolled his eyes.

Michonne let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "He's just being polite," she explained, attempting to placate him.

"No," Carl shook his head. "He misses you. And I know you miss him."

The preteenager pinned her with such a scathing look that Michonne felt her stoicism wilt.

"I do," she admitted, lowering the book to her lap.

"So you should talk to him," Carl was on his feet, already moving towards the front door. He threw the lock and pulled it open, peering out into the twilight beyond. "Dad!" he called down the street.

Michonne's chest tightened, fear seizing her. Carl glanced at her over his shoulder.

"You can do this Mom. Call me if you need me," he told her quietly. He spun back around to wave at the man walking up the path to the house. Michonne could just make out his curly hair over the top of Carl's head. He greeted his father, leaving Michonne stewing in her emotions.

The two men exchanged words quietly, the elder's booted feet thumping across the hardwood in a familiar cadence. With a nod, Carl retreated upstairs, leaving his video game blinking on the television set in his haste to clear the area.

"Michonne," he dragged the "o" out in her name the way he always had.

"Rick," Michonne could not bring herself to move from the couch, but chanced a glance up at her ex-husband.

He looked good; even through her heartbreak she could admit that. The curly hair she was so enamored with was getting long, brushing the collar of his blue denim shirt. Michonne realized with a start that it was the same shirt he had worn on their first date, carefully preserved with the attentiveness that Rick gave to all things he cared about. He was staring at her, nervousness dancing across his face, his blue eyes skittering from her face to his feet and back.

"How are you?" he asked, his accent rumbling across her ears.

"I've been better," it was an understatement, but Michonne managed to get it out without her voice cracking.

"Can I sit?" Rick's hand came to his hair, disrupting his coif.

Michonne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Rick lowered himself next to her, leaving only a few scant inches between them. Michonne smelled the musk of his cologne, the scent of the detergent that they apparently both still used. Rick's hands came to his knees, the long fingers spreading as he flexed them. He began to drum a beat across his worn-out jeans.

"How's work?" she took a chance at conversation, glancing at him quickly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but snapped it closed just as quickly. Michonne was familiar with the gesture. The silence spread between them. She contemplated imitating Carl and escaping upstairs.

"I miss you," Rick blurted it out in one breath, his voice too loud, startling both of them. With a shaky inhale, he began again, turning his body towards hers. "What I did a year ago, that was the dumbest thing I've ever done in my life. When Shane got shot…I don't know. It's like I couldn't think straight."

Michonne's eyes widened as Rick continued speaking, the words tumbling out fast and thick.

"You were just trying to get me to open up. The more you asked, the more I buttoned down. I just kept thinking about Lori, kept hearing her voice. And I forgot—" he broke off, swallowing thickly.

"I'm not Lori," Michonne reminded him quietly.

"I know that. I know you're not." Rick reached out for her shakily, his hand just brushing the back of hers. "I miss you so much, 'Chonne. It's like part of me left, and I just let it go. Hell, I chased it away."

It was Michonne's turn to sniffle now, pressure welling behind her eyes. She leaned forward, letting her locs tumble in front of her face, shielding her from Rick's piercing blue gaze.

"I'll do anything," Rick continued, grabbing her hand now. " _Anything_."

"Rick," Michonne's voice broke around his name. She glanced down at his hand, noticing the faint tan line on his left hand ring finger, a tan line that should have long since faded in a year.

"Please," he begged. "Can we try again?"

"Everything has changed," Michonne turned her head away from him.

"Except that I love you. That will never change."

"I love you too," she admitted. "But we can't go back to the way it was."

"We can go forward," his response was instantaneous. He shuffled beside her, coming to kneel before her. "I'm not going to stop trying. I gave up a year ago. I'm never going to give up again."

His hand cupped her chin, guiding her to look at him. They stared at one another for a long moment. Michonne felt her resolve crumbling. Rick's calloused thumb wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"Come out with me this week." Rick pressed his advantage. "A date. We can talk about whatever you want to. You can yell at me if you want," he licked his lips nervously. "Let's start over."

Michonne inhaled, her hands coming up to grasp his reflexively, her fingers twisting around his in a practiced movement.

"One date," she agreed, nodding.

Rick's face split into a smile. He leaned forward, his forehead brushing hers. Michonne felt the remnants of her resistance slip away.

"This is going to take work," she reminded him.

"It doesn't matter," he assured her. "I'll do whatever it takes."

She nodded against him, pulling back slightly before she could do something stupid, like kiss him. He had not earned that right back yet.

"You should go say hello to the kids," she wiped her face as she put space between them. "They miss you."

Rick nodded, standing up, attempting to coax the smile from his face and failing miserably. He glanced up the stairs. A parade of footsteps quickly rushing away to their bedrooms sounded as he moved to the base of the staircase. Michonne chuckled, knowing that all three of them had been listening. Rick joined her laughter, glancing at her knowingly.

"I missed this," he told her. With a last smile, he disappeared up the stairs.

Michonne settled back on the couch, her book forgotten, her ears perking at the sounds of Judith and Andre reacting to their father.

She exhaled, her whole body relaxing. She'd missed this too.

"So," Carl appeared in front of her, picking up his game controller just long enough to turn it off. "Did you talk?"

Michonne smiled at her son.

"Thank you," she reached for him, hugging him to her.

"No problem," he hugged her back. "Is dad moving back in?" he asked.

"Yes," Michonne did not hesitate. "But don't tell him that yet." She gave him a conspirator's grin that Carl returned.

"Make him work for it," Carl laughed, sitting down beside her. He leaned his head on her shoulder. Together, the pair of them waited for Rick to come back downstairs.


	7. Anniversary

**A/N: A happier tale than the last for a different version of our favorite couple. Rick has something special planned for his love a year after "Say Yes."**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The sun was not yet up when Rick slipped out of bed, carefully detangling himself from his lover. She sighed when he moved away but did not roll over, instead choosing to snuggle more deeply into their cocoon of bedding.

"Do you have watch?" she questioned breathily, her eyes fluttering open sleepily.

He bent to kiss her forehead, cursing his inability to move silently enough to not rouse her. "I'll be back before you wake up," he assured her, unable to resist running his fingers over the exposed skin of her arm. "Go back to sleep."

She complied, drifting back to dreamland with a small smile gracing her lips. Rick collected his pants and shirt from where they had been discarded the night before, sneaking out of his bedroom and down the stairs, pulling the layers on as he went.

Alexandria was quiet as he traipsed up the street, the chill of the air biting lightly at him. Still, he kept his pace even, enjoying a rare walk where no one was clamoring after him, demanding that he attend to some critical task. He rubbed his hands together to stimulate warmth as he continued onward.

"Good morning, Rick," Father Gabriel's gentle tone startled him. He spun on his heel, locating the priest on the porch outside of his church.

"Father," he nodded at him.

"Are you all ready to go?" the dark-skinned priest smiled serenely at him, tugging lightly at his sweater.

"Not yet. I will be," Rick paused briefly in his steps.

"Let me know if I can help," Gabriel offered.

"Will do," Rick continued forward, speeding up slightly. The sun was rising faster than he anticipated.

Rosita was already in the pantry, perusing the shelves, clipboard in hand.

"Your stuff is in the corner," she didn't even glance up as Rick located her. "Tara and I will take care of the rest."

"Are you sure?" Rick questioned, his nerves jumping.

"Go," Rosita rolled her eyes. "We got this."

Rick seized the cardboard box from the shelf in front of him, spinning on his heels and retreating up the street towards the church once more. Father Gabriel directed him to the rectory. Piece by piece, Rick pulled on his new clothing, marveling at Carol's ability to tailor an outfit with minimal supplies. His duds were on loan from Ezekiel; the Kingdom still had use for things like this, luxuries Rick thought to be superfluous in this new world. Even so, today he would make an exception.

He resisted the urge to inspect the remaining outfit in the box, instead adjusting his jacket.

"Are you ready?" Father Gabriel was back, dressed in his work clothes.

Rick glanced at the clock. "She should be up now."

"Then I'll see you shortly," Gabriel nodded, smiling widely.

Every eye was on him as Rick headed home. He kept his eyes straight ahead, struggling to ignore the wolf whistles and cat calls coloring his cheeks. The closer he got to his home, the more attention he attracted. The front door was unlocked, Michonne standing behind it, looking confused.

"Rick?" she was fully awake now, her hair damp from a recent shower, hanging loosely around her head. She looked equal parts amused and befuddled as he approached. "Why are you wearing a suit?"

He stopped at her feet, clutching the box nervously. "It's been a year," he began, his voice sounding too loud to his ears. "A year since we had our little road trip."

Michonne grinned fondly at the memory. "That was a good time," she assured him.

"It was," he agreed, his heart hammering against his ribcage. "We talked about some things. About a future for me and you. About doing this together," he gestured over his shoulder to the town behind him, inwardly cursing when he realized that most of its occupants were gathered around watching.

"We did," Michonne kept her eyes on Rick, her fingers running over the woodgrain of the front door.

"I thought we'd make it official," Rick swallowed, extending the box outward to her. "If you'll have me."

"What are you asking?" Michonne accepted the gift, gingerly peaking beneath the lid. Her brown eyes widened immediately.

"I'm asking you to marry me," Rick moved to get on one knee, setting off a fresh wave of hooting and hollering from the captive audience. Michonne looked at him, her chest heaving beneath her suddenly labored breaths. "What do you say?" Rick asked her, reaching for her hand. "You and me?"

"I say yes," he'd scarcely finished his question before she answered, putting the box down to rush forward towards him. He caught her deftly, dropping a chaste kiss on her lips.

"Then change into your gift, and I'll see you at the church." From behind his wife-to-be's head, Rick caught a glance of his son grinning at him. "Carl, you know what to do," he directed at him.

"I got it," Carl smiled widely from beneath his hair.

An hour stretched into ions as Rick waited inside the church, watching it slowly fill up. Ezekiel arrived in his usual cloud of splendor, Shiva on a chain before him, his people dressed in their finest. They interspersed effortlessly with the Alexandrians. Maggie arrived with much less of a flourish, baby Hershel on her hip, the Hilltoppers flanking her. She sat in the front row with Carol, Morgan and Daryl, smiling at him brightly. The crowd increased until it was standing room only, until it overflowed through the double wide doors of the church.

Despite the crowd, Rick's eyes went to Michonne immediately.

There was no grand piano to play her down the aisle, no long train dusting behind her, no veil to hide her face. Judith scattered dandelions in front of her, running too quickly towards her father. Carl walked proudly by Michonne's side, grinning widely at Rick the whole time. But it was the love of his life who stole the show.

It was a simple dress really, a cream colored, floor length number that certainly would not have passed as formal in the world before this one. She managed to make it look regal, her bronze shoulders and arms glowing in the early morning light streaming through the windows. She was smiling the smile that normally only Rick was lucky enough to see, her teeth sparkling brilliantly as she made her way to the front of the church.

Rick took her hands immediately when she was within reach, lacing their digits together almost painfully tightly.

"Happy Anniversary," he whispered quietly to her.

She had no time to respond as Father Gabriel began his words. It didn't matter. Her next words were the only ones Rick had been waiting for.

"I do."


	8. Night Out

**A/N: A teeny tiny ficlet in an AU universe, inspired by a request from Tumblr's Sugaree82. Enjoy!**

* * *

"That's the last time we ever do that," Rick leaned his head against the back of the car seat, exhaling as though he'd just completed a marathon.

Michonne bit back her laugh. "You're acting like going out is some kind of Olympic event."

"With you it is!" he sat up, whipping his head around to glance at her from the back of their cab. "I spend half the time glaring off men trying to push up on you and tonight—"

Michonne lost her fight against laughing, letting out a long held in chuckle. "You're telling me you aren't flattered?"

Rick flushed to the roots of his curly hair. "She was disgusting!"

"I've been told blunt bangs are making a comeback," Michonne's lips quirked, her amusement poorly covered.

"What about just spraying the ends of your hair yellow?" Rick still look horrified.

"I don't remember you feeling that way about that blonde. What was her name?" Michonne pretended to scour her mind. "Jessie?"

"Here we go," Rick scoffed. "She's just some mom at Carl's school—"

"And yet, her attraction to you didn't disgust you," Michonne could not resist the opportunity for low blows, not when he made it so easy.

"I don't remember Jessie asking you if it was ok to…" he trailed off, shuddering.

"Fuck you?" Michonne supplied easily, delighting in how Rick's blush deepened. "I think she was hoping you would but I wouldn't find out. At least this woman asked for permission." She shrugged.

From the driver's seat, the driver caught Michonne's eye in the rearview mirror. He was clearly laughing at Rick's expense.

"I…You didn't say no!" Rick accused, looking genuinely hurt.

Michonne reached for him, stroking his hair in the way she knew would soothe him. "You didn't _hear_ me say no," she corrected.

He faced her again, his brow furrowing, his head tilting. "What do you mean?"

"I ran into her in the bathroom," Michonne smiled, kissing Rick lightly on the corner of his mouth. "I don't think she'll approach us again."

Rick grinned, his pupils dilating as he observed her. "Because we aren't ever going to that club again," he informed her cheekily.

"Shame," Michonne removed her hand from his hair, adjusting the hem of her skirt instead. "I guess I'll just have to get rid of these dresses then."

Rick look instantly chastised. "You don't need to do that," he paled.

"No need, if we never go out," she said lightly.

The driver laughed out loud as he came to a stop in front of their house. He tossed Michonne a look over his shoulder.

"I'll take you out sometime," he informed her. Rick instantly stiffened.

Sensing the impending storm, Michonne grabbed her husband's hand. Coyly, she climbed over him, careful to wiggle across his lap in her quest to exit the car.

"I'd rather you take me inside and take this dress off," she told Rick loudly, her eyes on him.

Rick's breath hitched. Without pause, he tossed a handful of crumpled bills into the front seat, seized Michonne around the waist, and quickly removed them both from the vehicle. Michonne giggled in his arms, burying her face into his neck as Rick all but ran them into their house. They collapsed on the couch in a frantic heap.

"You know you're the only man that matters, right?" Michonne gasped into her husband's ear as he went to work pulling her dress over her hips.

He grinned, glancing up at her before he returned to his task of kissing every inch of exposed skin that he could reach.

"Obviously," he sat up to tug his button down over his head. "You know I don't look at any other women, right?" he asked her in turn.

"Obviously," she laughed. "That's why I'm not worried."

He chuckled against her, wrapping his legs around his waist. "Maybe you could convince me to go out in the future." He groaned as she rolled her hips into him.

"I'll do my best," she assured him, pulling him down on top of her.


	9. Lessons

**A/N: I was taking down my twists when inspiration struck. I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"Three sections?"

Michonne nodded at her husband, her lips quirked at the sight of him, back bowed over his daughter's head with studious concentration.

"Right," she encouraged, doing her best to keep her hands in her lap.

Rick struggled for a moment to hold the hair and reach for the brush, but managed after a few fumbles.

"So, you pull the hair over the middle part…" Rick recited, his brow furrowed. Judith squirmed in the hard kitchen chair, looking desperately over at Michonne.

"Mama," she plaintively called for Michonne, teetering dangerously on the edge of a meltdown. Michonne smiled at her reassuringly.

"Daddy's going to fix your hair really pretty for church," she assured the toddler. She glanced back up at Rick, still struggling. "Make sure to smooth the hair first," she cautioned.

Rick sighed, but reached for the brush again. With a few strokes, he managed to calm Judith's wayward curls then began again.

"How do you do this so fast?" he asked, his eyes still on his daughter's hair.

"I've had lots of practice," Michonne giggled, her own hair brushing her back and shoulders as she laughed.

"Ok," Rick released a breath, tying the end of the plait off with a pink hair tie. "How does it look?" he asked, his expression hopeful.

Michonne inspected the little girl's hair, taking in the even sections. It was a bit lopsided perhaps, but otherwise it was passable.

"It looks great," she said, too much enthusiasm in her voice, both for the benefit of her daughter and her husband. Rick grinned brightly, glancing down at his handiwork. "You might be ready for French braids now," Michonne told him, coming up behind him.

Rick looked horrified at the prospect. "There's more than one way to braid?"

Michonne laughed, reaching for Judith as she squirmed down from her chair. She swept the little girl up to her waist, balancing her in place against her growing belly.

"You better hope this one is a boy," she told Rick. "I don't think you're ready to learn about curl patterns and hair textures."

"I'll figure it out," he told her confidently, setting the brush down on the table and turning to his girls. He kissed them both on the foreheads, lingering to grasp Michonne's hair between his fingers. "You can show me how to fix these later," he told her, grinning.

"Ambitious," she complimented, impressed.

Judith wiggled out of her grasp and she let the little girl go, listening to her little feet beat a path out of the kitchen and away from her kissing parents.


	10. Last First Date

**A/N: This is a continuation of the story I began in Chapter 6. Rick takes Michonne on a date, determined to earn her back.**

 **I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"You look beautiful."

"You mentioned that," Michonne glanced at him through her long eyelashes. She was nervous, that much was clear. There was a sort of comfort to be gleaned from that; even after a year he still knew her tics. Still, they'd spent over a decade together in nearly every situation imaginable. That she would be nervous around him stuck like a knife in his ribs.

"I haven't gotten to tell you that lately," he moved his chair closer to hers. She regarded him again, the sadness clear behind her eyes. He reached for her, the tips of his fingers just brushing her bare arm. She shivered, pulling away.

"It's been a long year," she exhaled shakily.

"That's my fault," it had been a hard realization. He'd ruined his own life before he even knew he'd been doing it, sabotaged the best part of his existence. Now, through the grace of God, she was sitting with him, watching him expectantly.

"It wasn't all your fault," her voice was quiet, still tinged with sadness. "I shouldn't have—"

"It was completely my fault," he grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together tightly.

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, swallowing hard.

"How can I fix it?" he dragged her hand into his lap, tracing the curve of her fingernails.

"Rick," her voice shook around his name. He scooted closer to her still. "I missed you so much. Even when you were still there, I missed you."

His heart broke, the guilt flooding his stomach. The waiter arrived with food, interrupting them. Michonne smiled kindly at him. Rick was determined that he would receive that smile for himself soon.

"I was afraid," he left his food untouched, reluctantly releasing her hand back to her as she went to work on her bread. "I was so close to losing you all that day, and I couldn't shake the feeling." The words came easily now, after so many nights alone in bed thinking them over. "He took a bullet for me, even after everything, everything he did—" he paused, catching his breath. "Shane's betrayal led me to you, then he saved me for you, and then he was just gone and I didn't know how to feel about it."

This time it was her hand that reached for his, the pressure familiar and immediately comforting.

"Why couldn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice soft and plaintive.

"It was my old life," he swallowed, his eyes dropping to the table. "I promised myself I had let it go the moment we got together. Then all of a sudden…"

"You had to think about it again," she nodded, leaning forward towards him.

"How could I talk to you about that? Make you sit through hearing about Lori and the affair?" the idea of it tortured him all over again.

"I already knew, Rick," she reminded him gently.

"You deserved better than that," he admitted, meeting her eyes. "And I couldn't give it to you."'

She smiled then, chuckling wryly to herself, one loc of hair escaping its elaborate bun as she shook her head. "All I wanted was you, Rick. That was always enough."

He was crying over appetizers before he could stop himself, grateful for the low light in the restaurant as he hid his face in his left hand.

"How do I fix it?" he asked her again, his voice splintering.

Michonne's palms came to either side of his face, smoothing away the tears before settling in his hair. "Come home, Rick." His eyes met hers, questioning. She smiled lightly, tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck. "Just come home," she repeated.

He kissed her then, his damp cheeks pressing into her smooth skin, instantly starving for the taste of her. It was over too soon, interrupted by the arrival of wine and salads, the beginnings of a three-course meal. Michonne released him, turning back to the table, sipping her wine daintily.

"I love you," it didn't matter that the wait staff was still within earshot, his proclamation could not wait.

"I know," she smiled, pushing his plate towards him encouragingly. Without further ado, she began to talk, filling him in on the last year of her life as though he'd simply been away on a business trip. He listened attentively, absorbing the information about her cases, about her friends, about moments he had missed with his children. By the second course, he was talking quite a bit himself, things he hadn't even known he was thinking, things he'd spent a year pining to tell her.

When dinner was over, he drove her to their old house, intending to respect any boundaries that she set. He was surprised when she instructed him to pull into the garage, taking his hand as he opened her door for her, and leading him inside. He followed her quietly as she took them upstairs, past the children's bedrooms and into the one they shared for ten years.

"Where are the kids?" he asked. The tell-tell sounds of his children were nowhere to be found.

"At grandma's," Michonne smiled serenely. She turned to face him, her shoulders back, her chin high, the same beautiful, proud woman she had been all those years ago when they first met.

"Michonne," her name was a question, a plea.

"Stay," it was all she said, all she needed to say.

He pulled her into his arms, in awe that this was really happening, that he was really feeling her, smelling her, holding her. She draped her own arms around his shoulders, closing the space between them. With a sigh, she leaned into his chest, laying her head against him, waiting.

"Thank you," he pressed his lips against her. "Thank you," he repeated it, dusting her in as many kisses as she was willing to take. She pulled him to the bed and he came willingly, content to kiss her deeply like it was their first time, his hands taking stock of her body, reacquainting himself.

After several long minutes, she began to remove layers, hungry for him. It took all his self-control to stop her, sitting up to look at her. Her hair was mussed, her clothing wrinkled, her lips kiss swollen. He'd never seen something so beautiful.

With less finesse than he would have preferred, he reached into his pocket, maneuvering around her legs wrapped around his waist. He found what he was looking for, the purchase he had made months ago and hidden away. She stared up at him curiously.

"What is it?" she asked, her breathing still labored.

He took a deep breath, holding the ring up for her to see. "Will you marry me? Again?" it came out far too fast, but she heard him nonetheless.

"Yes," she did not hesitate, barely glancing at the ring as he pushed it up her finger. Their clothing disappeared at record speed, her hands frantic as they tugged at him, testing his resolve to go slow. Still, he managed, making up for lost time, teasing her until she was shaking beneath him.

"I love you," he promised, "I'm so sorry. I love you." He was determined to make her believe it. Every kiss, every caress, every moan was a mark of ownership, a promise to get it right this time.

She trembled, clawing at him, crying as she guided him back where he belonged. He held his face to hers, their cheeks pressed against one another, their tears and breaths mingling as they moved. His name fell from her lips like a mantra. Rick ground her name out with his proclamations of love, wondering for the millionth time how he managed to get so lucky. White light exploded behind his eyes as she fell apart around him. She tightened her grip on him, but Rick had no intention of going anywhere, pulling the blankets up around them, his hands digging into her hips.

She drifted off to sleep, the tears drying on her cheeks, her head tucked beneath his chin, her flushed skin pressed against his. Rick stayed awake, holding her close and watching her, unwilling to close his eyes.

Michonne woke up shortly after the sun rose. She blinked sleepily at him, her smile at the sight of him warming him to the tips of his toes.

"You're here," she murmured, tilting her head to accept his kisses.

"As long as you'll have me, I'm not going anywhere," he assured her.

She smiled again, the happiness radiating off her face. Rick grinned right back.

"Want to go get breakfast?" he asked. "You, me and the kids?"

"Of course," she reached for him. He was considering falling back into bed when the doorbell ringing startled him.

"The kids are home," her voice was an exhausted little sigh. He knew her mind was racing, figuring out the best way to tell them.

Michonne moved to get up but Rick was already on it. "I'll let them in," before she could protest, he was up and pulling on his pants, hastily heading for the door. He needed to see his children. He opened the front door with a flourish, delighting in the sight of all three of them on the doorstep. From behind his daughter and sons he could see Michonne's mother watching him carefully from her car. However, it was the look on Carl's face that would stay with him forever.

Shock melted rapidly into a shit-eating grin that Rick was sure he was mirroring. Judith was in his arms in a heartbeat, Andre wrapped around his legs. He squeezed them all tightly, vaguely aware of the sounds of his wife coming down the stairs behind him.

"You're home," it was Carl who spoke first, his voice cracking through the excitement of his siblings.

"For good," Rick told them, dropping kisses on their foreheads.

"Cool," Carl nodded, already moving inside. "It's good to have you home," he called over his shoulder, making his way towards his mother.

"It's good to be home," Rick called back, still smiling. With a flourish, he closed the front door, content to keep his family to himself for the day.


	11. Law and Order, Five Years Later

**A/N: MannaRN mentioned in the reviews that Chapter 6 and 10 could be seen as sequels to Law and Order. So I decided to give you some fluff as a sequel of sorts to assure you that angsty chapter 6 and 10 Richonne are not the Richonne from my story (and to break up all of that angst)!**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Law and Order- 5 Years Later

Michonne's phone buzzed from inside her purse while she navigated through the aisles of the grocery store. She fumbled for it, her hands full.

"What is it, babe?" she pressed the cellphone to her ear, shoving her purse up her arm.

"Did you get the cake?" her husband's southern accent twanged through the earpiece.

"Hello to you too," she grumbled, half-joking.

"Sorry hon." Rick was immediately repentant. "The boys and I are going crazy over here."

"I bet," birthday planning always fell in Rick's corner, an unexpected talent of her police officer beau. Michonne's contributions were most often limited to gift-buying for their three children. This year, she had a special task: distract the birthday girl.

"Mama," Judith called up to her from the shopping cart, bouncing her hands on the edges to catch her mother's attention.

"One second, Judes." She smiled down at her, fingering one of her curls and springing it. Ordinarily, her daughter's hair was kept in protective styles, the curls shielded from the abuse of a rough and tumble five-year-old girl. Today was a special day though, so Judith's hair was free, dancing around her head as she moved happily.

"Is that daddy?" she asked, reaching for the phone. Judith never could bare being parted from her father for too long. A business trip a year ago had nearly been her undoing. Michonne had been called to her preschool to pick up the bawling girl.

"Judes is asking for me?" Rick asked knowingly, his smirk practically audible through the phone.

"She's waiting on her cake," Michonne reported, smiling lightly at the baker behind the counter. Judith became distracted as the employee traced her name out carefully in buttercream frosting. Yellow was Judith's favorite color and it was highlighted in glorious fondant on her Wonder Woman cake.

"Can you remember to get candles?" Rick reminded her.

"They're in the cart. Do we need punch?"

"Carl and Dre made gallons of it. We've got enough to get every kindergartner in the city punch-drunk." Rick laughed.

"Good. We're about to have 30 of them at the house," the thought alone was sobering. It had been years since they had children over this young. She was just adjusting to Carl becoming a teenager and Dre a pre-teen. Now they had a grade-schooler.

Soon, they would have another infant.

"Don't leave me alone for too long," Rick groaned.

"I'll be home soon," she promised.

"Love you. Tell Judes I love her."

Michonne relayed the message to her daughter, now clutching her cake from inside the cart. Judith was buzzing with excitement as they paid and left the store, asking questions a mile-a-minute.

"Will the baby like the cake?" she asked from her booster seat, still staring at the image of Wonder Woman lovingly through the clear plastic top.

"Mommy likes cake. I'm sure the baby will love it." Michonne glanced at the time, speeding up just slightly.

"Does the baby like Wonder Woman?"

"Well, Mommy likes superheroes, and Carl like superheroes, and Dre likes superheroes…"

"And I do!" Judith exclaimed eagerly. "But Daddy doesn't!"

"Maybe Daddy will finally get an ally for movie night," Michonne chuckled to herself at the thought. After all the work he put in today, maybe she owed it to her husband to pick the next movie.

The driveway and streets were overflowing with cars by the time mother and daughter arrived home, but Judith was oblivious, rushing to get in the door to see her brothers and father.

"One second," Michonne stilled her, pausing her daughter as she frantically checked her phone. It blinked with a text from Rick.

"We're ready," it proclaimed.

"Ok," Michonne tried to keep the smile off her face as she threw the lock, allowing Judith to step in before her.

The look on her daughter's face when her whole class jumped out to scream "surprise" was something she wasn't likely to forget.

The next few hours were a blur of children and their parents, Glenn and Maggie, Abraham and Sasha, Andrea and her new boy toy, all enlisted in the help of wrangling the brood. Carl and Dre came in clutch as well, putting aside their teenage egos to make sure their sister was having a great time. Michonne filled her phone with pictures, smiling until her face hurt. By the time that the presents were unwrapped, the candles blown out, the cake devoured, the guests departed, and the cleanup handled, Michonne was absolutely exhausted.

"We did it," Rick collapsed next to her in bed, face down into the pillows.

Michonne giggled next to him, reaching over to stroke his curly hair. It was beginning to go salt and pepper, a condition aided by the amount of time he spent fussing after Dre and Carl.

"You did amazing," she had seen many an impressive party pulled together by her husband, but this all female-superhero themed bash outdid them all. Judith had fallen asleep in her brand-new Wonder Woman pajamas, a smile etched on her little face.

"You only turn five once," he rolled over, rubbing her stomach. The baby responded immediately, kicking vigorously.

"Too much cake," she mused, laying her hand over Rick's.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" Rick asked.

"I can't tell with this one," Michonne sighed, her head falling back as Rick moved his attentions to her feet. She returned his affections, rubbing his shoulders from her vantage point.

"I wouldn't mind another girl," Rick pressed his face to her stomach, dropping kisses. "The boys are running me ragged."

Between Carl's finely-honed sarcasm and Dre's never-ending energy, Michonne had to agree. "They did great today, though."

"They did," Rick sighed, already drifting off.

"You know," Michonne spoke quietly, acutely aware that she only had minutes to put her plan in action, "I had more plans for us tonight." She walked her fingers from his shoulders up to his ears. "But if you'd rather sleep…"

He glanced up at her, coming to attention at once. "I'm not tired," he quickly assured her, sitting up.

"Good," she kissed him on the corner of his mouth, shifting until just the baby was between them.

"How come every time I throw the kids a party, you get all riled up?" he questioned, his raspy voice sending chills through her. Michonne knew that he was aware of the answer, but he deserved to hear it anyway.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down to the mattress over her. "Because it reminds me that I married the best man in the world, and the best father," she nuzzled him, inhaling his familiar scent.

"You make it easy," he kissed her deeply before pulling back to amend his statement. "Well, almost easy."

He smothered the remnants of her laugh with his next kiss, pulling his wife closer against him.


	12. Hungry

It always came down to food.

Even at the prison, before the road, before Alexandria, hunger was their constant enemy. It kept Rick on guard, kept him on his knees, elbow deep in soil and weeds, coaxing sustenance out of the ground. It kept him inside the fences; it kept him from going on runs with Michonne.

Those times were blessedly over, the prison laying in ashes, those months on the road a distant nightmare. Their new reality was one of war, the battle to live free. It was one he didn't mind fighting at all, one he was proud to fight for his children and wife, for his people. Still, man could not live on dehydrated macaroni and chili alone and though the Saviors could no longer steal from them, they made the road an even more dangerous place to be.

Which is how Rick found himself on his hands and knees again, soil beneath his fingernails, moving saplings with cautious precision from the borrowed Hilltop pots to the freshly-tilled field near the south wall.

Though he missed the company of Hershel terribly, The view was better this time, of that he was certain. Stationed before him, kneeling in the soft earth was his wife. Her long mahogany locs were pulled back from her face, tucked neatly in a knot atop her head. The sun left a sheen of perspiration on her dark skin, despite the chill of the autumn air. She tucked the fabric around the tomato plant gently, insulating it against the early frost. Virginia winters came earlier and much colder than the ones they all were used to.

Her task complete, she exhaled, resting on her haunches. Rick watched her stretch, her arms coming up in a graceful arc over her head. He smiled at the sight, happy that she could move without the pain and stiffness she'd suffered the last few weeks. For a moment, he forgot the war, forgot Negan and Jadis, forgot his hunger.

She felt his eyes on her and turned, her full lips pulling up at the corners.

"Rick," Aaron's voice cracked through the tranquility of the moment.

Rick spun around, his annoyance melting as he laid eyes on what Aaron had brought with him.

"They're finally ripe," he extended his hand. Rick accepted the gift eagerly, his mouth watering already. Michonne's eyes lit up similarly. She offered Aaron a bright smile that their friend easily returned. He was gone as quickly as he came, leaving his present behind him.

Rick stood up, navigating his way through rows of covered plants and saplings, only pausing to offer Michonne a hand. He led them both beyond the borders of the miniature farm, settling down again against the wall. He could feel the cold metal through the leather of his jacket, but it ceased to matter when Michonne sat between his legs, leaning her warm body against his chest.

Her nimble fingers peeled the fruit carefully, the citrusy smell perfuming the air around them. Grinning brightly, she offered him a wedge, pushing the piece between his lips before taking one for herself.

"It's as good as I remember," Michonne let out a contented sigh, relaxing into him.

"It's better," Rick stole a kiss in-between bites, the tart taste of the grapefruit flavoring his lips.

The rumbling of his stomach interrupted them. Michonne laughed, the light sound dancing out across the field. She commenced to feeding him, breaking off another wedge.

"Eat," she encouraged, taking another bite herself.

Rick happily complied.


	13. Take Your Son to Work Day

**A/N: This fic is in response to courtgirl26's request for a story involving, " Rick leaving Michonne and Carl at the ASZ while he's out taking care of business and them having to protect their home from a threat"**

 **Also, just a reminder that there are two new chapters before this! I know the FF alerts were down for a while. If you haven't read them, feel free to check them out!  
**

* * *

"What's the plan today?"

Carl munched contently on an apple, crunching nosily at the kitchen table. Seamlessly, her offered his sister a slice of his breakfast, popping the bit of fruit into her waiting mouth.

"You dad will be here later," Michonne glanced out the window, as though she could see Rick off in the distance. "So, we just need to make sure nothing burns down until he gets back."

Carl chuckled, his face scrunching into the expression that preluded his sarcastic comments. "Isn't it dad that normally sets things on fire?"

Michonne hid her laugh, covering it behind her cup of tea. Rick's temper had gotten them in more messes than she cared to count, but he always got them back out again.

"He hasn't set anything on fire in months," she came to Rick's defense. Still, she could not help but to return Carl's mischievous smile.

"That's because he's with you now," Carl polished off his breakfast with a knowing smirk. Michonne did not bother to refute him.

"Get your sister," she instructed. "We'll drop Judith off with Tara before we head out."

"I'm patrolling with you today?" he asked excitedly, already bounding up from the table.

"Of course," Michonne took another sip of tea. "I can't leave you alone here. You might set something on fire."

Carl's scowl looked so much like his father's that Michonne succumbed to laughter all over again.

It was a rainy day in Alexandria, the skies dark and gray and heavy. There had been a time where rainy days had been cause for mourning for Michonne. Now, she enjoyed them. Bad weather often meant a reprieve from the troubles of this new world.

"Is this what Dad and you do all day?" Carl questioned, strolling importantly beside her.

She glanced over at him, briefly moving her gaze from the wall to her surrogate son.

"Some days are busier than others," she smiled lightly before returning to her inspection. Truthfully, things had been slow lately, a major contributing factor in Rick's decision to head out on a long run. He was reluctant to leave Michonne and his children. A month of slow days had convinced the pair of them that a week would not be cataclysmic. The first few days had gone off without a hitch, unless you counted how much Michonne already missed Rick.

"The wall looks pretty good," Carl leaned forward, squinting at the structure.

"You have to check the seams," Michonne instructed, running a hand between two metal pieces. "The steel holds up, but the seams are what gives us problems."

Carl complied instantly, his nimble fingers working between the damp spaces. It was beginning to rain, a light sprinkle that splashed down on the pair of them. The droplets bounced off the brim of Carl's hat. Michonne watched him continue to inspect the wall studiously. He was very much his father's son.

"What's this?" he poked at something, lifting a wet finger away. Rust was prevalent on his skin.

"Good eye," she moved in to look as well, pushing her dark fingers into the space. "This is bad," she could feel the holes beneath her hand, the wind from the other side of the wall whipping through. "We need to get some people out to fix this."

"In the rain?" the deluge was speeding up now, the heavy drops moistening Michonne's hair and skin.

"I don't think it's a good idea to wait," she hiked her katana on her shoulder, calculating. "We should be able to secure it for tonight. It will need a more permanent fix when your dad gets back."

"What do we do?" Carl snapped to attention, ready as ever to help.

Michonne tested the piece, leaning gently against the metal. It appeared to hold. "Aaron might know. We should go get him—"

Her plan fell apart as the section of wall toppled over, landing with a resounding crash that echoed through the forest beyond.

"Shit," she didn't like to curse around her son, but it couldn't be helped. That noise was sure to draw every walker in the vicinity. She whipped her head around to him. "Go get Aaron!"

Already, she could hear their low moans over the pitter patter of the rain. She unsheathed her sword, steadying her footing in the mud beneath her.

"No way," Carl's knife was out. Michonne tossed him the no-nonsense look that always got compliance. Carl refused to budge. "I'm not leaving you."

"I can handle it," she moved forward, beheading the first walker to reach the gap in the wall.

"I promised Dad," a geek to his right took his blade straight through the eye. "I'm _not_ leaving you," he reiterated.

There was no time to continue the argument. Michonne prayed silently that the walkers weren't the only ones who heard the wall fall as she went to work, slicing and dicing and ensuring that nothing got through. Carl fell into rhythm beside her, hacking away, watching her back.

The mud slowed the enemy down, but had the same effect on Michonne and Carl. Water was running into her eyes, blurring her vision. Carl was faring better thanks to his hat, but still had to contend with the loss of his eye. Michonne spun around, more concerned with keeping the walkers away from her son than away from the wall.

One came to close for comfort, lunging from Carl's blind spot. Michonne yelled for him to duck and the boy instantly complied, bending his knees beneath the arc of her katana. He took the opportunity to stab one behind Michonne, popping back up in time to kick another one back.

"Get inside," Michonne instructed, trying to push him behind her.

"Not without you," Carl didn't seem concerned in the least.

"Fine," she ground out, "Cover me."

She bent down, clawing at the piece of the wall beneath them, attempting to pull it back. She couldn't even lift it.

"Shit," she cursed again. They needed a way to close the gap. They needed time.

"Carl," she called up to her son, adjusting the grip on her sword.

"On it," he read her mind, lunging forward as she bounced to her feet. A half a dozen walkers fell to their combined efforts. Soon, the only sound was the rain still pouring down, washing away the filth.

Michonne took a few deep, steadying breaths, forcing the adrenaline from her system. From behind her, she could hear the frantic footsteps of someone approaching.

"We did it," Carl grinned at her, flicking the remains of an ill-fated walker from his blade.

"We did," she agreed, returning his smile.

"Michonne," she'd recognize that southern twang anywhere. "Carl!"

Rick was running towards them, his curls dripping down his head, kicking up water and mud as he approached. He fell on Carl first, examining his son for bites and scratches. When he had passed inspection, he spun on Michonne.

"You guys are ok," the relief was palpable in his voice.

"We got it, dad," Carl patted his father on the back. Rick gave him a long look, nodding thankfully.

"You guys took out 12," Rick observed, impressed.

"We've handled worse," she smiled, reaching for his hand. He gripped hers hard, the pressure a promise to discuss the situation later.

"We need to fix this," Rick glanced down at the broken wall, his mind already racing. "You two should go home, relax."

"You're the one who's been out on the road all week," Carl protested, voicing Michonne's concerns. "You should go home."

Rick looked ready to argue. Michonne stilled both of her boys with a look.

"We'll fix it together," her tone left no room for argument.

"Fine," Rick agreed, glancing at his son.

"Together," Carl echoed.

Rick dropped a kiss on Michonne's lips and patted his boy on the back before bending down to lift the wall. By the time Aaron and Daryl arrived, the three Grimes already had the piece back up and refitted.

Michonne eagerly led her boys home, leaving the rest of the repair to Alexandria's other residents. They had done enough for the day.


	14. Rituals

**A/N: This one can be seen as a sort of companion piece to my 50 Reasons story. Rick reflects on what Michonne means to him.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Life had become a matter of habit; it was what kept them alive, what kept them safe, what kept them fed. Everyone had a job to do, a part to play, every person a critical piece in the machinery. Check the border, service the weapons, take inventory of the pantry, search for survivors, hold community meetings—the list was endless for Rick Grimes. He was good at the rituals that made life livable after the turn, it was part of the reason that he was in charge.

The rituals began to change that day Michonne arrived at the prison.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, but surely nonetheless, the tasks of surviving began to take on new meaning. Life became livable one menial task as a time, as long as Michonne was there performing it with him. He hadn't realized it was happening until he was faced with the possibility of facing the rituals of the day without her. Wounded, defeated, bleeding, he had limped away from the smoldering prison, without his daughter, and with a disappointed and seething son. Continuing on seemed insurmountable, and if Carl had not been with him, Rick may have fallen asleep on that couch and refused to wake up.

Then she was at the door, knocking like it was an afternoon visit before the turn, and he'd realized just how much he missed her. All through that time on the road, of taking turns sleeping at night, of distracting Carl from his hunger and pain, of looking over their shoulders, of grieving for those they had lost and those they thought they had loss, she had been there. He hadn't had to ask, and Lord knows he never thanked her enough, but she'd been there all the same. Losing her was not an option, so he did what was necessary to keep her.

She'd wanted to come to Alexandria, so they had come. Maybe he had dragged his feet, maybe he hadn't made the best first impression, but he had followed her. Even when he had lost some part of himself, even when he'd neglected her, acted a fool, even when he'd started screaming in the streets, she had been there, knocking some sense into him.

It had taken over a year of grieving, or surviving, of perfecting this ritual of theirs, but he'd finally worked up the courage to show her what she meant to him. His gestures never seemed enough, but he extended them whenever possible. Candies, trinkets, clothing, books, toiletries, they all found their way into her hands, delivered sheepishly by him. He'd never been one for gift-giving, not in the life before this one, but he couldn't stop himself. It was habit now, another way to keep the love of his life by his side, to let her know how critical she was to him, to their family, to Alexandria. She accepted them all gratefully, with that beautiful, glowing smile. She loved every gift he had ever brought her, but there was one she treasured above all others. Blessedly, it was his favorite gift to give and one that was never in short supply.

"Rick," his name fell from her lips on a giggle.

The sun was not yet up, but Rick had learned long ago to get an early start when he wanted to keep Michonne in bed. He was not the only one with rituals. He trailed kisses up her warm coppery skin, delighting in her laughter.

"You're up early," she observed, her fingers already curling into his hair.

"Mmm," he hummed against her, watching the goosebumps race up her legs. "Lots to do today."

Michonne nodded, sinking further into the mattress. "It's time to plant again," she sighed. "And the wall needs fixing, and we should make a list for the next run…"

Her focus broke as he grasped her around the thighs, sliding her body beneath his.

"We'll get to it," he assured her, kissing back up her body until he reached her elegant neck. Her hands draped down his back. Her legs curled upwards, coming to rest around his waist. She moaned softly, pressing her face against his. "Did you sleep well?" he punctuated his question by pressing his lips to the place beneath her ear that always made her squirm.

"It's nice having a bed again," Michonne tugged him closer to her, smiling.

"I'm glad you like it," he pressed her harder into the soft surface beneath them. It had taken months to find that warehouse, and a week of trips to bring back enough for the whole community. The most expensive one was for Michonne, the kind of bed he couldn't have afforded on a sheriff's salary. Carl helped him put it together, delighted to have a gift to present to the woman who had become his second mother.

"It was sweet of you to bring it," she walked a path down his back with her fingers. "You know," she began, her voice taking on the syrupy quality that she reserved for their time spent alone, "it's a lot quieter than the last one."

"Is it?" he questioned, grinning at the look on her face. There was so much that he loved about this woman, even before he kissed her the first time. These moods of her were a pleasant discovery, another part of her to add to the endless list of reasons he adored her.

"You didn't notice?" she asked innocently. "Last night…"

"I was preoccupied last night," he rumbled into her chest, nipping at her.

"Mmm," she arched her back, pressing against him. "We didn't make a sound."

"I remember hearing some sounds," he teased, running a hand up her leg and between her thighs. She moaned.

"Not from the bed," she managed to gasp, her fingernails digging into him as he began his work again. He knew exactly where to press to elicit the response he wanted. He curled his fingers and she groaned in delight, he bent down to kiss her lips and she sighed beneath him.

And when he began the task of testing their new bed, he discovered that she was right about the mattress, but the room was far from quiet.

She fell asleep again as the sun began to rise, exhausted. Rick removed himself carefully, tucking the blankets in around his lover. She got cold easily; her dark and lovely skin craved sunlight. He had plans, if everything went well, to escape with his family to the beach when summer came. Maybe they could make it an annual tradition.

He pulled his clothing on piece by piece, quietly preparing for the day. He turned around, intending to kiss Michonne goodbye before slipping out and was met with the sight of her staring back at him, wearing a small smirk.

"Going somewhere without me?" she could barely contain her laugh.

Rick smiled back at her. "Of course not," he leaned down to kiss her, helping her out of bed.

"Nice try," she teased.

"I'll get you to sleep in one day," he grinned as he handed Michonne her clothing.

"Maybe," she shrugged, pulling her long locs into a snug ponytail. "You'll have to sleep in with me." With another bright smile, she seized her katana, stringing it across her back. Rick tucked his colt python into its holster.

"One day," he promised her, wrapping his hand around hers. He followed Michonne out of their bedroom.

They had work to do first.


	15. Married at First Sight

**A/N: A prompt inspired by RiseupRichonne on Tumblr. A married at first sight fic set in an AU zombie universe. Rick and Michonne are the adult children of the leaders of Alexandria and the Kingdom. Their parents are sure that the pair is a match made in heaven. Michonne wonders what the future holds as they spend their first night together.**

* * *

"You're sure about this?"

"Rick, you've asked me that at least a dozen times now."

"And I still haven't gotten a convincing answer, Michonne," he implored. His blue eyes seemed to glow preternaturally in the low light of his bedroom. _Their_ bedroom, she realized with a start.

"The sooner we do this, the sooner it will be over with," she lowered herself nervously to the bed, layers of tulle and lace gathering beneath her. She would never have chosen such a garish dress for herself. Unfortunately, her input had mattered little when it came to the subject of her wedding. The man in front of her, her husband, had been vetted and selected with careful consideration. Both his parents and hers were in complete agreement as to their compatibility. She had only met him a handful of times before, on trades and group runs. They'd never exchanged more than a few words at a time.

"We don't _have_ to do anything," his twang was unfamiliar to her ears, but oddly comforting nonetheless. He sat beside her, his tuxedo clad leg brushing hers.

"Except get married," she did not mean to say it, but the words slipped from her lips before she could stop them.

Surprisingly, he laughed, the mirth evident on his face. "Crazy world, ain't it?"

She was inclined to agree. Still, insulting the man she was meant to spend her life with did not seem like the best option. "I didn't mean to offend…"

"No offense taken," he assured her, loosening his tie. He had tanned, calloused hands, the hands of a man who was used to working outside. The sight of them was reassuring. Perhaps he would not mind her callouses. "My parents said they used to do things like this in some places in the world, even before the turn." He continued, studying the tie that was now draped across his lap.

"Apparently, it was effective," Michonne smiled gently at him. "Otherwise, why continue it?" She fiddled nervously with her own fingers, suddenly wanting to be rid of the dress, back with the familiar weight of her katana swung across her back.

"We have to repopulate the world. I guess it takes some coercing," Rick chuckled wryly to himself. "I still think that they could have given us a moment."

"Sometimes we don't get a moment, not in this world." Michonne did not know why, but she was echoing the argument her mother had used against her when this plan had been announced.

"I guess that's true," Rick looked thoughtful. "But we don't have to get started on it tonight. Not if you don't want to." Michonne studied him. She'd never much looked at him in their limited interactions before now. There was little time to focus on anything but survival when you were outside of the walls of any settlement. Rick had always handled himself confidently on the road. She saw now that his confidence extended beyond just work.

"Would you want to?" Michonne questioned him, amused by his seeming lack of nerves. She was impressed, truth be told. He was handling the situation with a grace she admired. She imagined he could have had his pick of Alexandrian women. Now, he was hers. He did not seem bothered by it.

Rick shrugged, a slight blush creeping up his lightly stubbled cheeks. He'd been clean shaven this morning when they said their vows. All four communities had shown up, bells on. It wasn't every day that the communities intermarried, and certainly not two people who were so prominent. Even so, prestige had not earned Michonne the right to pick her own partner. She'd been paired with a fighter as strong as she was, at least according to her parents. Rick was a survivor. Now, they would start a new generation of survivors.

"It wouldn't be so bad," he grinned lightly at her, his eyes raking teasingly over her. She flushed beneath her dark skin, but couldn't help her amusement.

Michonne felt herself beginning to laugh. "Like I said, we might as well." She meant it teasingly, but he did not seem to find the joke funny.

Rick's face contorted at that, as though he didn't like the idea of it at all anymore. Michonne had never known a man in this world to turn down sex when it was offered. The idea that Rick was considering it floored her.

"I'll make a deal with you," he sat up straighter, looking her dead in the eye. "You can ask me questions about anything. I'll answer them honestly. And if after you hear the answers, you still want to get it over with, we can. And if you want to just sleep, we can do that too." His brow furrowed as though he was concentrating hard.

Intrigued, Michonne tilted her head, regarding him. He was looking so earnestly at her that she didn't think she could have refused if she wanted to. "How many questions?"

"As many as you want," he replied easily.

"All right," she considered carefully, wondering where you even began when you wanted to get to know your husband. "How old were you?"

"When it all started?" he understood instantly. "10. I was living in Georgia with my parents. Little place called Kings County. We barely made it out, camped outside of Atlanta for a while, waiting for someone to come save us. When we started losing people, we moved on."

"All the way to Alexandria?" she asked quietly, trying to picture this stoic young man as a small boy.

"After some pit stops, yeah," he got a far-off look that she recognized.

"I was 9," Michonne found herself speaking. "My family lived in DC. My mom had a government job, very important. They got us out. For a while, it was like nothing had changed, like we just moved. Then everything changed when the fences came down."

She remembered that day vividly. It marked the end of her childhood, the beginning of this new life as a warrior.

"How'd you end up at the Kingdom?" he asked her, his eyes on her face. He scooted closer to her and she allowed it, comfortable with the proximity.

Michonne fidgeted with her skirt. "My dad knew Ezekiel from work. They rallied the troops, got people together. I heard your parents did something similar for Alexandria"

Rick nodded sagely. "It took ten years, but they did it." He paused, tugging at the buttons on his dress shirt. "Do you mind if I get out of this? It's uncomfortable."

"Not if you help me with this dress," she gestured to the fabric surrounding her. He obliged with a laugh, unzipping her out of the behemoth creation, laying it carefully on a chair beside their bed. She relaxed against the headboard as he shrugged out of his tuxedo, ending up in an undershirt and boxers.

"Is this ok?" he asked, gesturing to their relative state of undress.

Michonne nodded, waiting for him to take his seat beside her again. "How many walkers have you killed?" she resumed her questioning.

"Lost count sometime when I was a teenager. You?"

"Same," she paused again, considering her next question. Rick beat her to the punch.

"3," he said simply. "They attacked us on the road. Sometimes I think about it."

"5," she sighed, attempting to tuck the memories back into the recesses of her mind. "Two occasions. Both times I was attacked first."

He reached for her hand, his palm covering hers. Michonne flipped her own over, tracing the curves of his palms with the tips of her fingers. The contact was instantly soothing. Rick leaned backwards against the headboard, his curly hair falling into his face as he turned to look at her.

"Next question?" he prompted.

"Who's your best friend?" she needed a reprieve from the seriousness. Rick seemed to appreciate it.

"Tossup between a guy named Glenn and a guy named Daryl. But I'm hoping it'll be you soon."

"Why is that?" his answer surprised her.

"I always figured it'd be nice to be married to my best friend," he said simply.

Michonne smiled, chuckling to herself. Perhaps her parents _did_ know her well. She reached up with her free hand to loosen the complicated coif atop her head. Rick was momentarily distracted by her falling locs, but quickly regained composure.

"You can touch it, if you want to," Michonne told him knowingly. She leaned into Rick, resting her bare shoulder against his. He smiled, reaching for her hair.

"You looked really beautiful today," he muttered softly, his fingers tracing patterns down the long tendrils. "I wanted to tell you, but…" he laughed nervously.

"You looked handsome too," she complimented. In truth, he still looked handsome. His dark curls were getting wild as they escaped his slicked-back hairdo. She could see the muscles in his arms and shoulders, could feel the strength in the hand she was still holding. As far as husbands went, he did not seem so bad.

"You can touch it," he echoed her words, his eyes catching hers as she fixated on his curls. She smiled, twisting her fingers through the silky strands. He mirrored her, releasing her hand to drag both of his through the long curls around her head. "You done with your questions?" he asked.

Michonne met his eyes, struck by how close they suddenly were to one another. "What do you think being married to me will be like?" Her heart was pounding against her ribcage frantically, the way it always raced before a fight. She swallowed, attempting to calm herself, wondering why she was suddenly so nervous.

He ran a finger from her hair to her chin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. "So far, so good," he teased. One hand found its way back to her hair, the other reaching around to grasp her hand again. "My parents were right about you."

She laughed, the sound too loud to her ears. His touch was doing something to her, something she had not anticipated. "What did they say?" she was truly curious.

"They said that I'd like you," Rick's smile set her heart beating faster. She recalled their wedding, just a few hours prior. Their kiss had been chaste, short, full of nerves. She wanted to remedy that now.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked her final question.

He answered by closing the distance between them, covering her mouth with his own. He was tentative at first, gentle with his attentions, his hands just skimming the exposed skin of her shoulders. Michonne felt fewer reservations the deeper their kiss became, pressing her body fully to his until she was practically in his lap. He ran his hands up her bare legs as she trailed her own down his arms, clutching at the muscles. Heat flooded her as she felt him stiffen beneath her.

"Do you still want to get it over with?" Rick groaned as she rolled her hips into his. She delighted in the sound, deciding then and there that she would coax it from him again.

"No," Michonne held her giggle in at the sight of his disappointed face. She studied him for a moment, taking in his mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips. She wondered if their children would have his eyes. She kissed his cheek, dragging her lips to his neck. "I want you to go slow," she instructed, not recognizing her own breathy tone.

"Whatever you want," Rick assured her, his deep voice sending chills racing through her limbs. Gently, he rolled them both over, settling atop her. Michonne lost her silk slip a few minutes later, but scarcely noticed. Rick's hands were distracting. She clawed and clutched at his own body, gasping and shivering as he lavished her with attention. She could feel him pressing against her, hard and insistent. She guided him into her, unsure which of them was moaning louder as he slowly slid in.

It wasn't long until she reneged on her instruction to go slow, instead panting for her husband to go faster, deeper. He happily obliged. Tension coiled in the pit of her stomach like a tightly wound spring, the events of the last few weeks gathering and pulsating through her. She was married now, to a relative stranger.

She felt strangely happy about it.

White light exploded behind her eyes as the tension gave way all at once, her body convulsing until her new husband let out a strangled cry and collapsed on top of her. Their skin was slick, their breathing labored, but he still dusted kisses down her neck and shoulders. He held her like that again until her breaths slowed down. Michonne was content to lay cosseted in his grasp, listening to the faint thrumming of his heart.

"I was thinking maybe we could take a trip," he whispered, "Just the two of us."

She craned her neck upwards, gazing at him through her lashes. "Like a run?"

"Sure," he nuzzled closer to her, burying his face in her hair. "We can talk then. Get to know each other before…"

"Before we go back to work," she finished for him. They were expected to start a new community, continue the expansion of this new world.

"It's just an idea," he exhaled, his voice trembling a bit.

"I like it," she reassured him, kissing his chin. He relaxed against her. Michonne wound her arms around him, her mind tumbling with thoughts of the future. It had always seemed uncertain to her, a possibility she did not have the luxury to consider. She flattened her palms against the chest of the man lying naked next to her. "It will be nice to have a partner out there," she said quietly.

Rick smiled, dropping a kiss against her forehead. She tilted her face to accept his affections, heat beginning to stir beneath her skin once more.

"I think that this is going to work out, Mrs. Grimes," he breathed against her, sitting up to look at her again with his piercing gaze. Michonne ran a hand down up his face, brushing his damp hair back so that she could look at all of him.

"I think it will," she agreed, smiling.


	16. Married at First Sight II

**A/N: I enjoyed writing the last chapter so much and so many of you requested a follow-up, so I decided to turn this into a mini-fic. I might write one or two more chapters along these lines. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"This is nice." Michonne's quiet compliment cut through the otherwise quiet morning. She was walking stealthily beside him, her feet scarcely making a sound as they traipsed through what would soon be their community.

"It was part of the project that created Alexandria. Took a few weeks to clear it out. In a month or two, we had a proper wall up," he gestured behind them to the steel plates shutting out the outside world. Michonne took them in calmly, her large brown eyes inspecting her surroundings carefully. She was an interesting woman, Rick was sure of that. He'd seen her before, gone on runs with her even. She was always quiet, calculating, careful, almost studious. On the road, he had never seen her smile or heard her laugh. He'd heard her laugh last night. He also had heard her gasping in pleasure.

His wife. It was a strange reality to confront in the light of day. Like waking up in a dream, he was sure he'd imagined the night before. She was so shy, so tentative, nervous even. It caught him off-guard. The Michonne he knew was always sure of herself.

Then again, he didn't really know her. At least, not outside of the Biblical sense.

"Which one is ours?" her voice startled him from his musings. He turned to look at her. She was staring back expectantly. He took a moment to observe her, her long, dark lashes, her round nose, her full, heart-shaped mouth. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. The effect was just as pretty as her elaborate updo had been for their wedding. She was beautiful and she was married to him.

"I thought I would ask you to pick," he nodded in the direction of the large houses. "I figured maybe you should get a say." He meant it as a joke, but instantly regretted it. Michonne had not picked him. He had been chosen _for_ her. It was a daunting thought.

She smiled at him, the corners of her mouth lifting prettily. "Can we pick together?" she adjusted the katana strung across her back. Rick felt himself touch his Colt Python almost instinctively.

"I'd like that," he reached for her hand before he could think better of it. He had dated a girl once before, a pretty, waifish brunette. She hadn't been cut out for this world, and he couldn't save her, but he did learn everything he knew about romance from the experience. She had told him that he was too touchy, always kissing or hugging on her when they were alone. He wondered if his wife would feel the same.

Her slim, dark hand tensed for just a moment at his touch, then she relaxed, lacing her fingers around his. "Lead the way," she instructed.

They strolled through the street in silence, listening carefully for any sign of walkers. Michonne's eyes stayed on a constant swivel, bouncing from the houses to the yards between them.

"Do you like any of them?" he wished he had something better to say than these simple questions, but the woman who was now his wife robbed him of his ability to be clever. He had never found the confidence to say more than a few words to her all those times before. That did not stop him from jumping at the opportunity when his parents began to mention picking a partner for him. Their system may have been antiquated, but following his parents' orders had kept him alive this long.

"The blue one is pretty," her girlish comment brought a smile to his face. He had hoped she would pick that one. Glenn and Daryl had helped him paint it before it occurred to Rick that he should ask his wife what she thought.

"We can go look at it. Just give me a second to clear it out," he released her hand, reaching instead for his gun.

Her fingers clutching his arm made him pause. For a moment, he thought she might have been frightened, but her resolved expression soon dispelled that myth. "Together," she said simply.

He held the door open for her, watching her draw her sword. From the foyer, to the kitchen, to the living room, they quickly canvased the downstairs. When they reached the upstairs bedrooms, Rick felt his heart begin to race.

"What do you think?" he watched her circle the bed in the master bedroom, trying and failing miserably to not think of their first night together. All her uncertainty had vanished once he pressed his lips to hers last night. He could still feel her fingers in his hair, her legs wrapped around his waist, the heat of her, pulling and clutching at him until he felt like he might die of pleasure. Her gasps and moans still rung in his ears.

"It has a good vantage point," she went to the window, peering out. "You can see almost all of the community from here. That could come in handy." She gazed back at him, then looked quickly away. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked quietly.

"Like what?" Rick was certain that he was drooling a bit, but he could not help it.

"Like _that_ ," she found the courage to look up again, the hint of a blush beneath her coppery cheeks. "Even before the wedding, you would look at me." She turned to face him, waiting expectantly.

Rick felt his own cheeks coloring. "You're beautiful."

She watched him for a moment longer, clearly assessing. With a nod, she accepted his answer. "All right." She moved towards him, picking her katana up from its resting place on the bed. "We should keep looking."

Rick caught her arm, marveling at the fluid muscle below. His hands had caressed every part of her within reach last night, had delighted in the feel of her beneath him. "It's not just that you're beautiful," he felt compelled to explain his point. If they were going to be married, she needed to know the truth. "I've seen you on the road, and with your people. You're a natural at this." Her face contorted into an expression of confusion. Rick clarified quickly. "You're a leader."

She considered this, her dark eyes unmoving from his face. "So are you," she said at last.

He relaxed just a fraction. Maybe he hadn't gone so unnoticed by her as he had first suspected. "Maybe there's a reason they paired us up." He attempted to smile.

"Did you know? Beforehand? Did your parents ask you?" she was still watching him.

"No," he shook his head. "I knew they were picking someone. I _hoped_ it was you."

The statement hung between them. Rick began to feel ill, his stomach roiling. He could face down a hoard of walkers, but his wife was undoing him completely.

"Well," she spoke, her lips pulling into a mischievous smile. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me," he agreed, grinning back at her. He liked to see her smile. He wondered how he could bait her for it more in the future. Rick pressed his luck, pulling her towards him. She allowed him to close the distance between them. He contemplated kissing her when she caught him off-guard, standing swiftly on her tip toes to brush her lips against his.

His body acted on its own accord, his hands wrapping around her waist, drawing her in deeper. She let out a tiny little gasp that only served to urge him on. It was almost embarrassing, his reaction to her. She pressed her chest into him and Rick knew she would be able to feel him. Her nimble hands walked a path down his body, coming to rest at his waist. Her fingers traced beneath the worn denim.

"Michonne," he loved the way her name felt leaving his mouth, loved the sound she made when she heard him say it. "We don't have to…"

"I want to," she cut him off quickly, punctuating her protest with more wet kisses. He wondered vaguely when she had gotten so good at this, if there was some boy at home cursing his name for stealing her. "Do you want to?" she asked, looking shyly at him.

He was practically ready to burst at the thought. "I do," the words were raspy. "but I thought we were trying to get to know each other."

She laughed lowly, "This is getting to know each other."

"You don't want to talk?" he could kick himself for asking, and his lower half certainly did not appreciate his efforts at chivalrousness. Still, he had to ask.

"I do," she assured him, nipping at his neck. "I want to do this first." She slipped her hand beneath his waistband. "Isn't this supposed to be our honeymoon?"

He lost the battle at once, clutching her to him until his hands ran over from trying to cup all of her at once. They fell onto the bed in an undignified tangle. Rick wished for the second time in less than 24 hours that he was better-versed in this. If Michonne thought his actions were amateurish, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she tugged almost frantically at his belt.

"I used to watch you too," the confession slipped from her lovely mouth.

"You did?" the thought alone was dizzying. "Why?"

"Because of how you handle yourself out there, how you handle your people. It's like you don't even have to think about it. Like you were born to do it." She finally succeeded in her task, pushing his jeans around his knees. "I like it," she concluded, leaning up to kiss him again.

Something in the back of Rick's mind was making a mental note to tell Glenn and Daryl as soon as possible. They'd both teased him mercilessly for his wayward crush on the warrior woman from the Kingdom. He wanted to be worthy of her attentions, of her affections. Something close to a growl left his throat without his permission. Her vest and sweater disappeared in record time and he went to work on her tight jeans, peeling them inch by inch until her skin was bare beneath him. Somewhere along the way, Michonne rid him of his clothing. He took a moment to study her, marveling at how different this all was in the light of day.

There was no hiding with the sunlight streaming through the open blinds, no writing this off as a one-time thing. He was about to have sex with his wife, and this time, he knew she wanted him.

"Rick," she called his name as his head dropped to her skin, running his tongue across the warm surface until she began to squirm uncontrollably. Her hands found purchase around his waist. He pushed them away, his mind on one thing. She began to shiver as he kissed down her body, coming to stop between her legs. "Rick," she called to him again. "What are you going to—"

Her question transformed into a plaintive moan when he showed her exactly what he wanted to do. He fumbled for a moment, adjusting her legs as he went to work, listening carefully for her reaction. Her breathing was labored, which he figured was a good sign, but it was not quite enough. When his mouth closed in around her, she let out a scream, a curse word escaping her. He repeated the motion, pushing in deeper, delighting in her clamping her legs around his head. With another gasp, she fell apart.

"God, Rick," her legs went limp. "Are you ok? I didn't mean to—"

He cut her off a second time, kissing her full on the mouth. "Stop apologizing," he smiled while she recovered. "I wanted to."

"No one's ever done that before," she admitted. "Not like that at least."

He ignored the thought of another man kissing her like that, instead settling for asking. "It felt good?"

She smiled at him incredulously. "It felt _great_."

"Good," he settled down beside her, watching her carefully.

"It felt good last night too," she told him, rolling to her side to face him. "I was nervous, but…" she trailed off, her hand reaching out to touch him. He pulled it over his neck, bringing them flush together again.

"Are you nervous now?" he asked. Her heart was pounding against his chest.

"Yes," she licked her lips. "Are you?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"Maybe…" she lifted her leg, wrapping it around his. "Maybe we keep practicing until we don't feel nervous anymore."

He chuckled, unwilling to disagree with her. "What about the talking part?"

"We can practice that too," she smiled, her fingers toying with his hair.

"One thing at a time," he kissed her, slipping his tongue into her mouth as she allowed him to settle between her legs.

"Agreed," she grasped him and Rick's mind went fuzzy.

-l-l-l-l-

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue," Rick stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. Michonne had thrown the curtains open and cracked the window, letting in the cool air. She was sprawled atop him, her hair fanned out over both of their shoulders. "Favorite food?" he asked her.

"Chili Mac and Cheese," she flattened her palm out over his chest. "Favorite weapon?"

"I've had my python since I was a kid. I don't mind the machete though. Favorite thing to do?"

"Spending time with my friends. Maggie and Sasha are good company." She sat up slightly, her lips quirking. "You're giving them a run for their money though."

He returned her smile, kissing her forehead. "What do you want to do first, now that we're in charge of this place?" he asked her. He wondered how this would go, what kind of leaders they would be.

"That's two questions in a row," she chided mildly. "But I'll answer. I want to start a school."

"What kind?" her answer surprised him.

"Teaching people survival skills, scavenging, medicine, weapons," she ticked them of on her fingers. "The more we all know, the better. Then one day, if there's kids…" she trailed off, her skin flushing.

"That's a good idea," he traced patterns along her arm. He could not consider the possibility of children right now, not yet. Their partnership was new. There was work to be done.

"What do you want to do first?" she laid back down on his chest.

"I want to start a farm. Get some vegetables growing. Maybe take the pressure off the Hilltop."

She began to giggle. "Farmer Rick, huh?"

He pinched her. "School teacher Michonne, huh?" he fired right back.

"You think anyone will live here?" her laughter subsided.

"Well, it'll at least be you and me," he attempted to reassure her, wrapping her in his arms again.

"That's not so bad," she mused, smiling at him.

"Nah," he kissed her. "It's not."


	17. Author's Note

**Hey guys! This is just a note to inform you that the remainder of the Married At First Sight story is moving into a longer fic all to itself. If you're interested, please find it on my page.**

 **In the meantime, please feel free to submit your requests. I love all of the challenges you have all come up with. And thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing.**

 **.**


	18. Little Things

**A/N: This is a super tiny ficlet that escaped my mind. A sequel of sorts to my one-shot Car Questions, in which Rick gifts Michonne with one of her favorite books. Set the night before 6x10, the soon-to-be-couple enjoys a quiet night on the couch.**

* * *

"Don't stop," the gravely voice caught Michonne by surprise.

"Rick, you're falling asleep," she protested gently, amused.

"I'm not," he shook his head, glancing at her through heavily lidded eyes. She was reminded instantly of her son, how he used to look towards the end of a bedtime story.

"You can barely keep your eyes open," Michonne moved to slip a makeshift bookmark between the pages, but Rick reached out to stop her. His long fingers tapped the worn paper.

"I'm just resting my eyes," he argued. He tilted his head up at her, his curls falling into his face. Michonne held in her smile.

"You and Daryl have a run tomorrow," she reminded him, nudging him with her shoulder. He needed to rest. She would not be responsible for him going out beyond the wall exhausted.

Rick peered up at her through his lashes, slumped on the couch beside her. Michonne had seen this expression grace his face before during some of their quieter moments. She was ashamed to admit the effect those blue eyes had on her.

"Please keep reading?" his question was so unexpectedly soft that her resolve splintered completely.

"One more chapter," she agreed, reluctantly moving her eyes from her roommate to the book. Rick sunk deeper into the cushions, content. Michonne began to read again, careful to enunciate so that Rick understood every word. "I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ask. And that in wondering bout the big things and asking bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, the more I love…"

In the living room of their home in Alexandria, Michonne kept reading and Rick listened, his head pressed lightly against her shoulder, the tips of his fingers just grazing her leg.


	19. Shiver

**A/N: A little season 5 ficlet set right before our soon-to-be-couple decides to go to Alexandria. Michonne is cold. Rick warms her up.**

* * *

He could feel her, even though she was several inches away from him. It began as a series of twitches, so slight and quiet that he could barely detect them. Within the hour they escalated until the body beside him was shivering uncontrollably.

Rick laid there for a moment, listening to Michonne tremble, her clothing damp and clinging to her in the cool night air inside the barn. He watched her for a few seconds more, sure that her face was contorted in discomfort. The mental image was too much for him.

She tensed up at the first touch of his arms around her, turning her head almost frantically to look at him. He had never touched her before, not like this. Even in his worried and sleep-muddled mind, he was astounded at how naturally her body fit against his own.

"Rick, you don't have to…" she began to protest. Rick wrapped his arms tighter around her, rubbing at her cold skin.

"Shh…" he soothed her, pulling her into his body warmth.

Slowly, surely, her shivering began to cease. "Thank you," she whispered, finally relaxing against him.

"Anytime," Rick curled his body around hers, resisting the urge to brush a kiss over her cheek.

He held her in the dark, allowing his mind to wind down until both of them fell into a deep sleep.


	20. Ticklish

**A/N: A Mini-fic set in 6x11 when Rick and Michonne are "cleaning up" at the Hilltop. Rick can't keep his hands to himself.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"You won't find it," Michonne challenged, a small smirk gracing her lips.

"No?" Rick was determined, his fingers trailing over her limbs. She giggled lightly, a new sound to his ears, one he already craved.

"We're supposed to be cleaning up," she chided, making no move to stop his quest.

"They can wait," Rick continued his exploration, dusting his hands up her legs. Michonne's hands made their way into his hair.

"They're going to wonder what's taking so long," she sighed, her protest halfhearted.

"They interrupted us this morning," he was unconcerned with what these people thought of him.

"You could wait until tonight," she suggested, even as she turned in his arms, arching her back.

"Where's the fun in that?" Rick grinned salaciously, he worked his palms beneath her clothing, one sliding up to cup her, the other moving under her waistband. His fingers brushed the skin on her upper thighs and she jerked. "Found it," he teased, doubling his efforts.

She began to giggle in earnest, attempting to twist away from him as he tickled her. "You win," she swatted at him, smiling brightly.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, tilting his head.

Michonne glanced to the door. She reached out, jiggling the handle, checking that it was locked. "Don't stop," she instructed, biting her lip.

Happily, Rick complied.


	21. Cravings

**Married at First Sight- One Shot**

 **A/N: A tiny ficlet to go along with my Married At First Sight story. Michonne is pregnant and the cravings are kicking in hard...**

* * *

Her husband was at the kitchen counter, diligently working. She could smell the fruits of his labor even in her sleep, the scent wafting upstairs to draw her out of a nap. Michonne had never slept so much in her life as she did now, often at Rick's insistence. Still, her exhaustion was trumped completely by her hunger.

"You're up," Rick turned to smile at her, tilting the caramelized fruit out of the frying pan and into the center of a lined pan.

"Apple pie?" her mouth was watering already. Her husband, for all his machismo, was a wizard in the kitchen, crafting things she thought she would never taste again.

He nodded, turning his eyes back to his task. She watched, fascinated as he dusted his hands in flour, sculpting a crust with practiced precision. It would have been enough for her that the pie be edible, but Rick always insisted it be beautiful too, especially if it was for her.

"Do you need help?" she asked, unable to move her gaze off of him. The scents of the kitchen, sugary sweet and delectably buttery, were making her mouth run. The sight of her husband made her ravenous for something else entirely.

"I'm almost done," he placed his creation in the oven. "You should go rest."

"I'm not tired," she told him, working her lower lip between her teeth.

"Hungry?" he asked, rinsing his hands.

"Yes," she was always hungry, even more now that she had Rick's baby growing inside of her.

"I can make you something while that bakes," he was already heading towards their cabinets. Michonne stalked after him, wrapping her arms around his waist, her stomach protruding just the slightest between them.

"I'm not hungry for food," she smiled against his back. "Well, not yet," she amended. She was sure she'd be starving soon.

Rick spun around, shutting the cabinets and turning to grasp her in one fluid motion. Michonne hopped happily into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist.

"Let's go then," he grinned, slapping her playfully on the bottom. "We've got an hour until that pie is done."

Rick moved quickly, his lips on Michonne's as he steered her out of the kitchen.


	22. Lullaby

**A/N: A little one shot taking place before the fateful kiss on the couch. Carl heals, Rick worries, Michonne comforts.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

She was seated on the porch, Judith in her lap, gently rocking the toddler back and forth in the moonlight. Rick paused to watch her, stopping dead in his tracks, loathe to interrupt this moment. Judith clung to Michonne, glancing up at her through sleepy eyes. Michonne's lips were moving and Rick bet if he got closer to her, he might hear the gentle lilt of her voice.

For a moment, Rick forgot that Judith's was not Michonne's not by blood. For a moment, he forgot that Michonne was not his.

"Rick," she looked up at him, calling to him softly in the darkness. He moved forward, eager to get to her, hoping that she wouldn't mind sitting out on the porch with him. Carl had been moody today, the depression stemming from his injury causing him to lash out. The guilt that Rick had been feeling for weeks now sat heavily on his mind.

He climbed the porch stairs, mindful to let his feet fall lightly. Judith had drifted off in Michonne's arms.

"Hey," he mustered a smile, sitting down next to her.

Michonne looked at him, those wide dark eyes seeing right through him, the way they always had. "Are you ok?' she asked simply.

"No," it was easy to admit to Michonne. Keeping secrets from her had never yielded good results. Rick was determined never to do it again.

She nodded, her hair dancing from behind her ear to swing in front of her face. Rick brushed it back without even thinking about, already missing her eyes on his.

"There's going to be hard days," she shifted his daughter in her arms. Judith rolled her face into Michonne, snuggling closer to her protector. "But Carl is strong. You are strong. It's going to get better, Rick."

Rick nodded, fighting against the embarrassing prickle behind his eyes, swallowing his emotions.

"Hey," she called to him again, her hand coming out to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck. He leaned into her touch, determined to draw on the comfort she always provided him. Her palm came to rest at the back of his head, the fingers massaging gently. "I'm here," she reminded him.

"I know," he covered her slender hand with his own, holding her against him. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Michonne smiled, returning to rocking Judith, content to sit.

Rick watched them, relaxing marginally until he drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Michonne's gentle humming.


	23. Coma

**A/N: A response to a request by Tumblr's enjoi16 who asked: "Can you write about Rick, a patient, and Michonne, the doctor?"**

 **I'm sure you didn't expect it so soon, but sometimes things come pouring out of me! Thank you for the amazing prompt. I hope you enjoy!**

 **This takes place in an AU when Rick is shot and in the hospital.**

* * *

She saw him for the first time when they wheeled him in, unconscious on a gurney, laying in a pool of his own blood. A sheriff's deputy, she was told later, but in that moment, he was like all the others, a life to save. It had taken six hours on the operating table, but Michonne had done what she was best at. He slid into a coma despite her best efforts, but ICU said his prognosis looked good. They took over from there, and that was that.

Or it was supposed to be.

There was something about the ailing sheriff that slipped under her skin when she least expected it to. Perhaps it was the fact that no one was waiting for him during the surgery. Perhaps it was the fact that when his people did show up, they were stoic. Perhaps it was that little boy, chocolate haired with that band of freckles, silently sobbing as Michonne explained the situation to his mother and a few other sheriffs.

Whatever the reason, she looked after Sheriff Rick Grimes, even after he wasn't her responsibility. She noted that his friend, dark-haired, wild-eyed and with a certain roughness to him, visited most often. He sat by Sheriff Grimes bedside for long hours, talking in that clipped southern accent of his. Michonne approved of this, enjoyed the way that the dark-haired man seemed insistent on keeping his friend in informed about the goings ons of King County.

His wife, a waifish brunette, pretty but serious, visited less often, sometimes with her son in tow, sometimes alone. She spoke in hushed tones, sometimes crying, sometimes appearing angry at the prone form in the bed. She rarely touched him.

Michonne wondered most about this, wondered what had to transpire to make a wife feel that way about her husband, wondered what kind of man Sheriff Rick Grimes actually was.

It was none of her business, she reminded herself. She was there to heal, and she had done her job to the best of her ability. She was an ER surgeon, and there was plenty to keep her busy these days.

And yet, she still thought about the patient in the bed.

His visitors began to taper off as days stretched into weeks. It was here, despite the logical part of her brain screaming that this was a terrible idea, that Michonne found herself sitting in the chair by the comatose patient on her lunch breaks.

He was handsome, she noted immediately, especially now that the pallor had faded from his face. The nurses were maintaining him well. He had curly chestnut hair and a dimple in his chin, and Michonne was willing to bet that when he was up and moving, he'd have dimples in his cheeks to match. Perhaps he was a charmer, perhaps he stepped out on his wife. That would explain a few things.

She contented herself with the thought, going about her business for a week and a half. It was enough, until she caught them in the stairwell. She could have turned around, could have retreated, but she didn't. She walked straight past them, letting them see her, letting them know that she knew. The woman blushed hard beneath her pale skin but the man was unconcerned. Suddenly, the reason for the wife's bedside manner came into sharp relief.

Suddenly, Michonne found herself by Sheriff Grimes' bed much more often.

She talked sometimes, reading the paper, taking over the duty of keeping him informed. She told him about difficult cases she had seen, about the lives she had lost, about the faces that haunted her. He listened, attentively, as coma patients were inclined to do. And still he did not wake up.

Until the day that he did. It began as a slight twitch in his hand, a movement that drew Michonne's attention immediately. She paused, setting down her lunch, standing up to check on him. Tentatively, she touched his palm. The shock when his hand curled around hers nearly caused her to scream.

She pressed the button for the nurse, her eyes jumping to his monitors, her heart pounding against her ribcage when she heard the voice she had only imagined for the last month and a half.

"Who are you?"

It was rusty, raspy from disuse. Still, it did something to her.

"I'm Dr. Michonne Carter," she was in work mode all at once, smiling at him through her calm, measured voice. "How do you feel, Sheriff Grimes?"

He blinked at her, confused, still returning to this world. "Thirsty," he managed to rumble out.

She checked his vitals, waiting on his nurses to arrive. "Understandable. You've been asleep for a long time." His skin was warm, the pulse strong and steady beneath her fingers.

"Where's Lori? Carl?" he looked around the room, his disappointment clear.

Michonne felt her heart contract. It was not her business to tell and she could not, but the look on his face would haunt her.

"I'm sure they'll be here soon," she assured him, smoothing back the curls on his head without thinking about it.

He nodded, glancing up gratefully at her. She smiled back.

At once, his medical team was in the room and Michonne was ushered out, back to her floor, back to the ER, back where she belonged. She heard that he'd been discharged a few days later, went home to the wife and the son and the friend, presumably none the wiser.

Then she didn't hear of Sheriff Rick Grimes anymore.

In fact, she didn't recognize him, nearly six months later. She was exhausted, eager to go home after a grueling shift when she saw the uniformed man leaning on the counter of the nurses' station. She held back a sigh, wondering what it was now that would keep her from her bed, when he turned around.

"Are you Dr. Carter?" the accent was there, smoother this time, rich like warm maple syrup. Michonne stopped in her tracks, taking in the slicked back curls, the smooth-shaven chin, the dimples creasing his cheeks as he grinned nervously at her.

"Sheriff Grimes," she responded, holding in an anxious laugh.

"I know I'm six months late, but I thought, better late than never," he began, his hat in his hands, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet. "I came to say thank you."

"For what?" there wasn't a lot of thanks in her job and Michonne didn't need it. The work was fulfilling enough.

"For saving me," he swallowed. "And for being there when I woke up."

"It was my pleasure," it wasn't the most professional of responses maybe, but it was the truth.

He smiled at her, his left hand coming up to smooth back a few wayward curls. Michonne noticed at once that the gold band that had adorned his ring finger was gone.

"Maybe… maybe I could pay you back some time," he began, those blue eyes locking on hers. "Maybe with dinner?"

Michonne smiled, taking a step closer to him until she could breathe in the crisp scent of his cologne. She had questions, dozens of them that demanded answers.

"Dinner would be nice," she told him.


	24. Coma 2

**A/N: I had a little more of this story left in me, and some of you asked for a part two. Without further ado...**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Unexpected.

It was the only word that could come to her mind right now, racing through her head on a loop. Sheriff Grimes, _Rick_ , was unexpected. She hadn't expected to operate on him seven months ago, hadn't expected to be so drawn to him while he laid in a coma, hadn't expected him to come looking for her months later.

And she definitely did not expect to be here, naked, panting and still underneath him.

"You ok?" his question rumbled against her bare slick skin, his lips sending goosebumps racing across her body.

She opened her mouth, but could only manage to sigh contently. Rick took the invitation, kissing her again. Michonne reached for him, halfway torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. His scar, still jagged and raised, pressed against the palm of her hand. She succumbed to the pleasure of the feeling of his mouth on hers, parting her lips for him.

His hands made their way to her waist, gripping at her, wandering lower. She pressed herself wantonly into his calloused palms, her legs falling open almost on their own accord. He was inside of her again before either of them knew what was happening. She dug her nails into his shoulders, arching her back and groaning against his mouth.

"God, Michonne," that accent again, deep and enticing.

"How did this happen?" she asked the question, even as her body thrilled at the feel of him.

"I don't know," he sounded just as confused as she was. He paused in his movement, sitting up just slightly, his arms braced on either side of her head. "Do you want to stop?"

"No," she didn't consider the option at all, instead rolling her hips back into his. His moan, low and rough was her reward.

"Thank you," he lowered his face to hers again and she was ready this time, catching his lips with her own. On and on it went, neither quite able to release their hold on the other, until Michonne was sure her body would simply give out, unable to take anymore. Then he would kiss her again, or touch her, or look at her, those blue eyes almost glowing in the low light. Suddenly her exhaustion would evaporate and they'd be right back where they began, wrapped tightly around each other.

It was hours before they finished. Peeling herself away from her new lover, Michonne retreated to the bathroom. Under the florescent light, she studied herself in the mirror, wondering what she was supposed to do now. She was out of practice with this, years removed from the intimacy of having a partner. She'd felt comfortable with her self-imposed celibacy. Now, she was not sure what to do.

She emerged from his modest bathroom to find him standing, still naked and at his dresser.

"I should go," Michonne began, unsure. She was sore in places she'd learned to ignore, drunk off the taste of a man she barely knew.

"You don't have to," he spun around, a dark t-shirt in his hands. He looked as though the thought of her leaving had never occurred to him.

"I don't want to… intrude," it felt absurd to say it out loud. Dinner at a modest Italian restaurant had ended in a sweaty tangle of sheets. Now she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Michonne, I want you to stay," she liked the sound of her name on his lips immensely. Too much.

"All right," She bit her lip, heart pounding, wondering what all of this meant.

He smiled, handing her a the shirt while he pulled on a pair of briefs. "What side do you want?" he asked her, gesturing to the mattress.

"I'm good with whatever," she rarely shared a bed these days.

"Ok," he looked at the queen-sized for a moment, seemingly contemplating something important. At once, he moved to the right side, sliding the covers back for her to join him on the left. She pulled on the warm cotton shirt, breathing in his scent, then climbed in bed.

They faced one another, silently appraising. Rick reached for her, gingerly inching her closer to him until he could wrap his arms around her.

"You know," he started, choosing his words carefully, "this isn't something I do a lot. In fact, I've never done it before."

She smiled at that, his admission relieving her. "Neither do I."

"I really did mean to just buy you dinner," he continued, his lips tilted in just the hint of a grin.

"I really meant to just eat dinner," she told him. She hadn't counted on what his smiles would do to her, hadn't counted on what good company he was when he could talk back. He'd reached for her hand outside the restaurant and she'd lost the battle to stay objective. She still wasn't sure who initiated the kiss that led them here, a few blocks away in his new apartment.

"I'm not sure what this means… and maybe it sounds crazy, but…" Rick broke off. "I feel like I really know you."

Michonne felt a thrill race through her. "I mean, I did talk to you a lot, while you were—" she broke off.

"I know," he kissed her hand. "The nurses told me. Can I ask why you did it?"

She had no real answer so she settled on shrugging. "I didn't want you to be alone," she said simply.

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "My wife—ex-wife," he corrected himself. "She started sleeping with my best friend when I was there."

Michonne worried her bottom lip between her teeth. Rick noticed.

"I think everyone knew but me," he said, the hint of sadness flickering over his face.

"I'm sorry, Rick," she knew that pain intimately, knew what betrayal felt like. "My husband, he left too. Took our son." She missed Andre every day, eagerly counted down the moments until their weekends together.

"Does it get better?" he asked, his voice heavy with sleep.

"I hope so," she whispered back.

She did not remember succumbing to her exhaustion, but the next thing she knew, she was waking up, pressed face down on Rick's bare chest. His hand was laying over her backside, protectively, almost as though he had always done it. It took her a moment for the events of their night together to come rushing back. She realized with a start that her own hand was covering his scar.

"Good morning," he yawned sleepily. If Rick was uncomfortable, he showed no signs of it. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did," she found herself smiling at his familiarity.

"Good," he kissed her forehead, adjusting his grip on her. "I'm starving."

"Me too," she stretched against him.

"All right then," he sat up, his hair comically disheveled. "Let's go."

Breakfast (or brunch, rather) was just an unexpected as the night before, but no less pleasant, even outfitted in Rick's t-shirt and too-large basketball shorts. He held her hand on the short walk around the corner and slid into the booth beside her, his fingers still laced with hers.

"We should do this again," he announced ceremoniously around a mouthful of Belgian waffles.

"Ok," she agreed readily.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, just as eagerly.

"Ok," she agreed, helping herself to a bite from his plate. Smiling, he offered her the rest of his bacon.

"Tomorrow," he repeated happily, kissing her hand.


	25. Coma 3

**A/N: The support for this little story has been overwhelming. I can't promise a full fic, but I think I can manage one or two chapters more. I think I'll keep them here instead of yanking them out into their own separate story. Thank you for all of the encouragement and kind words!**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"I want you to meet my son."

The statement was innocuous enough, but it set Michonne's heart frantically rattling in her chest.

"Already?" she wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling chilly.

Rick crawled closer to her, pressing his chest into her bare back. His hands slunk around her waist, tracing a now-familiar path over her skin. His lips on her shoulder sent a chill of a different kind through her.

"You don't want to meet him?" he asked, his tone conversational, as though they weren't having a serious discussion.

"Of course I do," Michonne longed to see the little boy with the cinnamon freckles under better circumstances. "But we haven't been doing this that long…"

"What is it that we're doing?" he asked, his face still pressed against her.

"We're…" Michonne searched for a way to quantify it. Certainly, they were lovers. She'd found herself falling into Rick's bed over a dozen times in the last few weeks. Even during the day, the echo of his touches seemed to haunt her.

"I like you, Michonne," Rick pulled back, his eyes flickering up to meet hers. Michonne held his gaze.

"I like you too," the words were soft but sincere.

"I want to be with you," they were the words she had been hoping for, but she still found herself scrambling for a response.

"You haven't been single that long," she began carefully. She couldn't forget the look on his face months ago, his plaintive plea for his wife and son.

Rick's hands tightened around her waist, spinning her to face him.

"You think I still love Lori?" the little crease between his brows let Michonne know just how serious he was.

"You were married… for years," she sighed, suddenly tired.

"We were over before I went in the hospital," he cupped her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. "She just put the nail in the coffin when I was asleep."

A sudden memory of Rick, pale and bleeding nearly to death fills her mind. Her eyes prickled, tears falling unbidden down her cheeks.

"Rick…" she hastily wiped them away, embarrassed.

"If you need time, I'll give you time," his hands covered hers, the thumbs tracing the curves of her fingernails. "But I already know. I want you."

The tears fell hard and thick. Michonne tried to pull away, but Rick moved closer still, leaning his forehead against hers. He held her there, rubbing gently at her back.

"I want you too," the admission slipped past her lips.

"Then what are you scared of?" he asked.

It unnerved her, how quickly Rick had unraveled her carefully crafted control, how he seemed to worm effortlessly into the cracks of her.

"I don't want to get hurt again," it was the simplest explanation she could give.

Rick looked thoughtful at this. For a moment, she feared how absurd the whole thing sounded and thought that he would call her out on it. Instead, his hands came to her hair, massaging at her scalp, tugging lightly at her long braids.

"I recognized your voice, you know," he told her. "Right when I woke up. I thought I had died for a second, thought I was in heaven. I didn't know how I knew you, but I did." He pulled her into his lap. Her legs fell to either side of his waist as she pressed against him. A moan escaped her, low and desperate.

He kissed her, once gently, asking for permission. She opened her mouth in response and he took the invitation. His lips alone were enough foreplay for her, but Rick continued on anyway, his hands beginning a thorough explanation of her body, as though he had never gotten to touch her before.

"Rick," she whined his name again, arching into him, begging.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Michonne," he pressed this promise into the curve of her throat, his teeth nipping at her until she squirmed in his lap. "I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated.

He tilted them over, laying her out across his mattress. Michonne missed the contact at once and reached for him. He caught her hands, bringing them both over her head. Her knees fell apart, inviting him in. She nearly cried in relief at the feeling of him inside of her.

He moved with purpose, one hand still holding her captive above their heads, the other stroking her. His name fell from her lips over and over again until it felt like a mantra.

"Rick, please," she didn't know what she was asking for, but she knew she needed to touch him. He released her arms and she reached for him immediately, clinging to his free hand like a lifeline, bracing herself against his back with the other. She pulled at him, forcing him deeper still. A ragged moan escaped her.

"Michonne," her name was a question, desperate, pleading.

"I trust you," the truth rushed out, her heart winning her over.

With a groan, Rick pulled her against him, holding them chest to chest. She fell apart as his mouth covered hers. Mere seconds later, he followed her, letting out a strangled cry.

She held him against her chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart, his warm breath on her skin. Her fingers plied at the curls she loved so much. He tightened his arms around her, attempting to bring her still closer. His lips continued their exploration of her, kissing gently. His hair, impossibly soft, brushed her bare skin. Michonne began to relax, sated.

It had been years since she had felt anything like this. If she was being honest, she wasn't sure if she'd _ever_ felt like this before.

"I want this," she whispered to him, hoping he believed her. "I want you, Rick." She wanted to meet his son. She wanted him to meet hers. Whatever this was, whatever road they took, she wanted to be on it.

He smiled at her, tilting his head up, looking so happy that she began to laugh. He kissed her, tickling her sides in retaliation. Her giggles escalated until she's squirming against him.

"Maybe Carl can come over when I have Andre," she suggested, unable to meet his eyes. "Maybe I can make dinner for us."

"At your place?" his tone was casual.

"You should see it," she smiled softly. "You might be spending a lot of nights there."

"Dinner sounds great," he kissed her forehead, settling down to lay beside her. Michonne rolled over onto her stomach, her chin resting on his shoulder. His hand found its way to her backside again.


	26. Coma 4

**A/N: Another installment in the tale of Dr. Michonne and Sheriff Rick. It's meet the family day!**

 **I think I have one more chapter of this tale left in me after this. I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"Like this?" Andre squinted up at Rick, his little brown feet dangling in the water.

"Almost," Rick looked down at the little boy, adjusting the hook clamped between his tiny fingers. "Carl, will you show him?"

"Sure thing." the older boy was eager, his freckled nose wrinkling as he grinned, sliding closer to Dre. "Be careful not to hook yourself," he instructed, giving Andre his full attention.

"Like this?" Dre raised his hands, holding up his handiwork for Carl's inspection.

"Like that," Carl patted him bracingly on the back, lapsing into another lesson, this time on how to cast the line. Rick watched closely, smiling from beneath his faded red trucker hat.

Michonne paused, the cold cans of pop frosting in her hand as she walked back towards the dock. She was intimately aware of everything around her, the warmth of the sun beating down on her skin, the breeze rolling by, rippling the water in front of her, the sweet scent of the sunscreen she'd slathered the boys in. Most of all, she was aware of how she was feeling: unequivocally happy.

It had been years since she felt like this.

"Michonne," Rick waved her over, smiling at her from behind his sunglasses, his curly hair hidden by his hat. He presented an alluring picture, posed beside both of their sons.

"Mama, come see!" Dre called back to her, brandishing his fishing rod. Carl turned to grin at her, looking so much like his father that it brought a smile to her face.

"C'mon," he gestured to her.

Michonne took her seat, handing out the soda cans with a flourish. "Caught anything yet?" she asked.

Carl and Dre didn't hear her. They were in a deep conversation, debating which superhero in the Marvel universe was best. Dre, despite his youth, was knee-deep in making a compelling argument for Black Panther.

"I think they scared all of the fish off," Rick's mouth was dangerously close to her ear, sending a chill racing through her.

"I don't think it matters," she couldn't take her eyes off the boys. Dre was normally so quiet, so reserved around strangers.

"They like each other," Rick grinned, reading her mind. He took a deep pull of his pop, smacking his lips in appreciation. "I told you they would."

"You did," Michonne leaned into him, lowering her feet beneath the cold surface of the water.

"Carl always wanted a brother," Rick whispered again, his gaze now falling to the two boys kicking water at each other.

"So did Dre," Michonne smiled at the thought.

Rick leaned forward swiftly, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "This is going to work out," he murmured, removing his hat and placing it on Michonne's head.

She adjusted it gratefully, "I think you're right."

-l-l-l-l-

"Who's that outside?" Mike squinted out of the window and into the fading light, his face twisted in confusion.

Michonne resisted the urge to sigh, keeping her tone level. Today had been lovely, but returning Dre to his father was always difficult. Getting angry would only spoil what had been a near-perfect afternoon. "My boyfriend," the more she said it, the easier it became. Already the terminology felt comfortable, like a well-worn pair of shoes.

"How long has that been going on?" Mike blinked at her in surprise. Michonne appraised her ex-husband, wondering how he would take this.

"A month or so," it had technically only been a week since they had given their relationship a title, but Mike did not need to know that.

"You sure you have time for that?" the barb was not unexpected. Michonne's retort came easily.

"He's worth making the time," she replied coolly.

Mike sucked his teeth at that, but refrained from responding. "You two spent the day with him?"

"We did," her patience was wearing thin. "We'll be spending many more days with him." She looked forward to them already.

"You're going to share your time with our son with some man you barely know?" Mike was trying to get under her skin.

"Dre needs to get to know him," Michonne took a deep breath. "He's not going anywhere."

A silence stretched between them. Michonne chanced a glance at Dre, sleeping soundly on the couch. Carl had worn him out swimming in the lake. His coppery skin shone with the leftover heat of the day, a smile still etched on his face.

"Fine," Mike clipped out. "But I want to meet him first."

"Fine," Michonne smiled, "He's outside now."

Mike set out for the door before she could fully finish her sentence. Michonne followed at a leisurely place. Rick was where she had left him, leaning casually against the side of his truck. He looked enticing in his leather jacket, his curly hair smoothed back. He grinned lazily at her as she approached. Mike quickly put himself between them.

"I'm Mike," he extended his hand.

"Rick," Rick straightened up, returning the gesture. Michonne came around to stand beside him.

"What do you do, Rick?" Mike was in full-alpha mode.

"I'm a sheriff's deputy," Rick showed no sign that the encounter bothered him at all.

"He has a son too," Michonne imparted, reaching for Rick's hand. He took it without pause, smiling at her.

"They met today. He's a few years older than Dre." Rick explained. Lori, Rick's ex, had not deigned to come out of the house to meet Michonne when they'd dropped Carl off. Michonne couldn't say she blamed her. She knew Lori's dirty secret and Lori knew that she knew. Michonne wasn't in a hurry to see her again.

"Kind of soon, isn't it? To be meeting the family?" Mike asked.

Michonne did nothing to hide her smile. Rick grinned similarly. "When you know, you know. And Michonne makes it easy to know." He squeezed her hand.

The two of them watched Mike search for a reason to protest for a moment, their smiles widening when he simply nodded.

"I guess we'll see you next weekend then," he glanced at Rick one last time, taking him in.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Michonne began. Mike blanched. "It can wait until next week."

Rick squeezed her hand reassuringly. Michonne smiled at him.

"Want me to drop you off?" Rick asked a few moments later in his truck.

Michonne turned to him, studying his tanned face, the dimple in his chin, now dusted in a healthy crop of facial hair.

"Can you stay the night?" She wanted to give Rick the tour, wanted to fall asleep in her own bed, with Rick wrapped around her.

"All you had to do was ask," he winked at her, pointing the truck towards her house.

"I'll take you to breakfast tomorrow," Michonne promised.

"Waffles?" he asked.

"Waffles," she laughed, sinking into the passenger seat, tired but content.


	27. Coma Conclusion

**A/N: The final chapter in the Dr. Michonne, Sheriff Rick mini-series. Thank you for the encouragement to keep writing this and a huge thank you to enjoi16 for the beautiful prompt that launched it all.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The monitors beeped lowly in the background, their rhythmic sound oddly comforting in the stark, white room. Michonne shifted slightly, stretching. The hand in hers flexed around her fingers.

"You ok, baby?" Rick blinked blearily at her, smiling.

"I'm fine," she assured him, dropping a kiss on her hand.

"Still comfortable?" he sat up, straightening in his chair.

Michonne grinned at him. His curly hair, longer now, was mussed and disorderly, and he had a crease on his face from sleeping against her bedsheets. She reached out, smoothing his hair. "Rick, I promise I'm fine."

"Nothing's changed?" he squinted at the monitors. She'd given him a crash course last week, at his insistence.

"She'll get here when she gets here," Michonne promised again.

Rick exhaled heavily, searching his phone. "Want to call Dre and Carl?"

Michonne glanced at the clock. "They should be in bed by now."

Rick cut his eyes at her, a smile tugging at his lips. "You and I both know that's not happening. Your mom is a pushover with them."

She laughed lightly. "You're right." Assuredly, both of their boys were up in bed, reading comics with a flashlight.

"I'm going to text them," Rick punched amateurishly at his phone. Michonne watched in amusement.

"Here, hon," she coaxed it out of his hand. Rick readily relinquished it. "Come here," she instructed.

Rick crawled in bed next to her, pulling a face once he saw he intention. Michonne leaned against his shoulder, smiling widely as she snapped the picture.

"Perfect," Rick voiced his approval as the text whooshed away, heading to Carl's phone. Their response came back quickly. Just as Michonne suspected, Carl and Dre had constructed a blanket fort in the living room and were sprawled atop their comic book collection. Rick chuckled at the photo before settling down again beside Michonne, staring at her thoughtfully.

"What is it?" she asked, flushing under his heated gaze.

"This is where I first saw you," he smiled at the thought. "Except it was me in the bed."

Michonne's face split into a smile. "You scared the hell out of me when you woke up. I'd gotten so used to you being quiet."

"Only when I'm sleeping," he kissed her, cupping her chin in his hand. "You were doing all of the talking back then."

Michonne shrugged, her mind back on that time years ago, "You were a great listener. Still are." Rick did his best listening in bed, rubbing her back as she spoke, his chin tucked to her shoulder.

"I could hear you, you know," Rick looked thoughtful, his hand coming to cover her stomach. "Sometimes, when I'm asleep, I dream about you talking to me."

"What do I say?" Michonne questioned quietly.

"That you love me," Rick kissed her again. Michonne blushed.

"I do," she confirmed.

"I know," he replied cheekily. "I love you too."

They were interrupted by the arrival of a nurse. She bustled about, checking the monitors.

"She's taking her time," the nurse announced brightly. "Maybe she's asleep."

"She takes after her dad, then," Michonne ribbed lightly. Rick grinned.

"How do we wake her up?" he asked, reaching for Michonne's hand.

"Maybe a little walk will help," the nurse chirped.

Rick's arm was looped around her waist as he navigated them down the halls of the maternity ward. Michonne leaned gratefully against him.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked him. "We're going to be outnumbered." Her mind wandered back to the boys at home. The days of waking up to a quiet house were long gone, the fruits of a custody battle with both of their exes. Now, during the week, she woke up to three testosterone-filled boys bouncing around almost constantly. Dre and Carl were a force to be reckoned with, tearing through the rooms having lightsaber fights and shooting nerf guns, often accompanied by Rick. Michonne did not miss the quiet. She much preferred a full house.

"I've been ready," Rick patted her baby bump. "I'm trying to build an army here."

"Oh?" she turned to him, smirking. "Who's giving birth to this army?"

Rick shrugged. "If you carry them, I'll take care of them once they get out here in the real world."

Michonne laughed. "Deal."

"Yeah?" he looked delighted at the mere thought.

"Let's get this one out first, then we can talk about it." Michonne paused, a contraction rolling through her. They were getting closer together.

"Is it time?" Rick asked, his grip on her tightening.

"I think so," Michonne answered, smiling.

-l-l-l-l-

"I want to see her!" Dre bounced excitedly around the bed, clamoring to get up.

"Hold on, Dre," Carl grabbed his brother, expertly giving him a boost. Both boys leaned over the bed, craning over Michonne.

"Boys, one second," Rick pulled them back. "Sit down here," he instructed. Both of them dutifully lowered themselves into the chairs around the bed. "Remember what we talked about?"

"Hold the head up!" Dre's voice was too loud, the tell-tell sign that he was over excited.

"What else?" Rick prompted, amused.

"Don't yell around the baby," Carl recited, shooting Dre a pointed look.

"Right," Dre lowered his voice to a loud whisper.

"Ok," Rick stood up, shooting Michonne a look over his shoulder. She grinned back. "Who's first?"

"Dre can go first," Carl volunteered charitably, smiling at Michonne. Michonne blew him a kiss.

Rick took the infant from her arms, carefully transferring the baby into Dre's grasp. Carl leaned over immediately to look at her.

"She's so pretty," he grinned, his hand gently tracing the baby's features.

"She looks like mom," Rick agreed, sitting down beside them.

"Hi Judith," Dre crooned, attempting to rock his sister. "Hi…"

"We're going to have so much fun," Carl touched the dark curls on his sister's head. "Dre and I picked out a bunch of toys for you."

"I think you'll like them," Dre added.

Michonne watched, her eyes prickling, tears threatening to spill over. Rick noticed, glancing up at her. He waited until Judith had been transferred safely into Carl's arms before returning to his wife. He crawled into bed beside her, draping his arm over her shoulder.

"I love you," he whispered, wiping away her tears.

Michonne caught his lips in a kiss, disregarding the chorus of "ews" from their captive audience.

"I love you too," she told Rick, smiling.


	28. School Daze

**A/N: This next one is a response to courtgirl26's request: Rick, Carl, Michonne, and Andre meet in the principal's office after Carl defends Andre against a bully and sparks fly with Rick and Michonne.**

 **Thanks for the awesome request and I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"Carl," Rick burst into the principal's office, eyes roving for his son.

He found him, seated across the desk from the principal, looking completely at ease with the exception of his clearly bruised knuckles.

"Hi dad," Carl greeted, grinning up at him.

Rick held in his sigh. "Again?" he asked. He wished he had a dollar for every time they'd ended up here. After Carl's mother had passed, his son's behavior had spiraled, taking out his anger at the unfairness of the world on the faces of other students.

Carl shrugged. "It's for a good reason this time, I swear." He tilted his head, the long hair flopping over his eyes as he gestured. Rick blinked in surprise, finally noticing the boy seated beside Carl. He was small for his age, slight and wiry, with dark skin and black rimmed glasses.

"Who's this?" Rick asked curiously. He knew most, if not all, of Carl's friends. He didn't recognize this boy at all.

"I'm Dre, sir. Andre." He spoke up, his voice surprisingly deep despite its softness.

"Nice to meet you, Dre," Rick wondered what would possess Carl to fight this nondescript schoolmate. Carl read his mind.

"They were bullying him, dad," Carl spoke up. "He told them to stop, they wouldn't. I told them to stop and they wouldn't. And there were no teachers around to help." Carl cut his eyes accusingly at the administration.

The principal spoke up for the first time, clearing his throat. "I think we better save the boys' version of events for when Dre's mother arrives."

"It's not our version. It's the truth." Carl clapped back immediately. Beside him, Dre's lips pulled up in the hint of a smile.

Rick held in another sigh. Almost without trying, he'd managed to raise a son who took it upon himself to punch injustice out of existence. He didn't mind that about Carl in the slightest, but it had landed them here, in the principal's office of this expensive private school on more than one occasion.

"She'll be here soon," Dre piped up. "She was in court."

"His mom's a lawyer," Carl announced proudly. "My dad's a cop."

"Nice," Dre nodded, his eyes flicking nervously to Rick for just a moment.

"Sheriff Grimes," the principal began again. "We take these allegations very seriously. Unfortunately fighting is against the rules…"

"Dre, were you being bullied?" Rick asked the other boy forcefully.

"Yes," Dre nodded again, seeming to fold in on himself.

"Did Carl defend you?" Rick continued his line of questioning.

"Yes," Dre answered, slightly louder.

"So where are the bullies then?" Rick turned back to the principal, eyebrows raised.

"My question exactly," a new voice joined the fray. All eyes on the room turned at once to the door. Rick felt the air get sucked out of his lungs.

Dre's mother was gorgeous. No sugar-coating that. Tall, wrapped in a navy blue peacoat with long dreads pulled up into a bun, she painted an enticing picture. Her face, however, betrayed her immediate irritation.

"Well?" she prompted, sweeping into the chair beside Rick. "Where are the boys who were bullying my son?"

Rick hid his grin, catching his son's eyes over the new arrival's head. Carl smirked.

"They are being dealt with separately." The principal straightened up, attempting to recover.

"And why is that?" Rick could picture this woman in court immediately. He had a sudden desire to watch her in action.

"That's what I'm wondering," he found his voice again. "Why are our sons in here like delinquents and the actual perpetrators are running free?"

"As I said, we will deal with the issue of bullying separately…"

"It seems like the actual issue _is_ the bullying," Dre's mother did not allow the principal much room to speak. "Young man," she turned to Carl, "Would you have hit those boys had they not been bullying Dre?"

"Nope." Carl smiled widely at Dre's mother.

"Then why are we here?" she swiveled back to look at the principal.

"Carl has been in fights before…" the principal tried again.

"What do his priors have to do with this?" Rick spoke up, his voice sharp.

"Agreed, Sheriff Grimes," Dre's mother leaned forward. "Are we punishing the boy again?"

"No…" the principal stammered.

"So you wish to persecute him for defending another student?" Dre's mother sat up. "Dre, what were the boys taunting you about?"

"My glasses," Dre spoke up. "And my advanced classes," he continued. "And they were saying I'm not really black, and a sissy since dad died-"

"What?" his mother's question snapped across the office. Rick felt a surge of anger flow through him. He understood Carl's actions all at once.

"Carl told them to shut their mouth. They wouldn't. One of them pushed me," Dre gained steam. "Carl punched him."

"Good," Rick resolved at that moment to take Carl out for ice cream. "I hope you hit him hard," he told his son.

"I did," Carl brandished his bruised knuckles like a badge of honor.

"Sheriff Grimes, honestly, I don't think we should encourage this type of behavior."

"I'll encourage my son to punch racist bullies as often as possible," Rick felt his temper flare.

To his right, Dre's mother smiled saccharinely, "I would think that the school would want to defend one of its students. Especially one who's both a model student and promising track star."

"Looks like they don't care," Rick was building up steam now, bolstered by her energy. "Maybe this isn't the kind of school I want my son in."

"Now, Sheriff Grimes," the principal began.

"Nor my son," Dre's mother straightened up, reaching for her purse. "In fact, I think other parents ought to know this school's real values, don't you?"

"Agreed," Rick reached for his hat, preparing to put it back on.

"There's no need for that," the principal interjected quickly.

"I think there's a very great need," Dre's mother disagreed serenely. "After all, a boy who defended another from a bully is being punished while the bullies run free. Odd, no?" she fixed her wide brown eyes on Rick.

"Wrong, more like it." He stood up, seizing Carl gently by the elbow. "C'mon Carl."

Carl quickly got to his feet. Dre imitated him.

"We haven't discussed the situation," the principal protested weakly.

"I think it's best we go the legal route with this issue," Dre's mother said. "Sheriff Grimes, could we confer later?"

"I'm free when you are," Rick would make time for her.

"I don't think that's necessary," the principal was on his feet in a heartbeat. "I will talk to the students responsible. I'm sorry for wasting your time Ms. DuBois, Sheriff Grimes."

"Mmm," the dark-skinned woman tilted her chin, sweeping towards the door. Rick rushed to open it for her.

Carl and Dre hurried out after their parents. Rick paused in the hall, his eyes on the posh woman standing across from him.

"Maybe we can go have that talk now," he offered, conscious of his son smirking at his elbow.

"I think the boys earned an afternoon off," Ms. DuBois agreed, smiling at Carl and Dre. "Thank you, for defending Dre."

"No problem," Carl bounced on the balls of his feet. "Dre helps me out in math. Least I could do."

Rick patted his son on the back encouragingly. "I'm in the mood for ice cream." He looked questioning at Dre's mother.

"I could use some dessert," she smiled back. "My treat?"

"I asked, I'll pay," Rick protested. Carl scoffed knowingly beside him. He shot Dre a pointed look.

"We'll be by your truck, dad," he lead Dre off, the boys whispering conspiratorially. Dre threw a look over his shoulder, giving Rick a thumbs up before disappearing through the school doors.

Rick turned back to the stunning woman in front of him. She was regarding him coolly, as though she was making her mind up about him.

"I'll pay this time," she began, "And you can pay for dinner next time."

"Dinner?" it took Rick a moment to catch on. She grinned in amusement, her eyes dancing to his naked ring finger. His eyes whipped to her own bare left hand. "Right, dinner," he straightened up, willing the blush to creep out of his cheeks. "What time should I pick you up, Ms. DuBois?"

"Michonne," she corrected, shaking his hand. "And Friday at 7, Sheriff Grimes?"

"Rick," he gripped her slender fingers, unable to stop the smile on his face. "And that sounds perfect to me."

"It's a date then," she smiled, then swept off after their children, Rick hot on her heels.


	29. School Daze 2

**A/N: So many of you asked and you are so, very persuasive. No promises on a part 3, but if I get inspired to do another chapter, I will!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"So your dad, what's he like?"

Dre kept his voice light, his eyes on the screen in front of them. Carl was a formidable opponent at video games. They were stationed on the couch, a bowl of tortilla chips between them, button mashing away.

"He's cool, for a dad, you know?" Carl shoved a handful of snacks into his mouth.

"But what's he like?" Dre prodded. "Is he chill? Does he have a temper? Is he strict?"

Carl paused, thinking. "He's pretty strict, but he's chill too. Like, I didn't get in trouble for punching that kid. But other stuff sets him off. Like if I'm moody or slam a door or something."

Dre successfully managed to kill Carl's character. Carl groaned while Dre smirked.

"So he's a nice guy?" Dre continued, selecting another character from the menu.

"Yeah," Carl shrugged. "I'm probably going to end up just like him. It probably won't be so bad." He reached for his sweet tea on the coffee table in front of them. "What's your mom like?"

"She's tough," Dre answered almost without thinking. "My dad died but she just kept us going. Didn't skip work, didn't pull me out of school, didn't spend all day crying. She just kept on going."

"She didn't cry?" Carl stopped to look at him, his blue eyes wrinkling as he processed this.

"She cried," Dre would never forget the sound. "Just when she thought I couldn't hear her."

Carl nodded sagely. "My dad used to do that. It was like a year or two before he stopped."

All at once the two boys couldn't seem to look at each other.

"My mom likes your dad," Dre said, restarting the game.

"My dad likes your mom," Carl laughed.

"Maybe we'll be brothers," Dre had toyed with the idea all week.

Carl grinned. "That'd be cool."

"Yeah it would," Dre winced as Carl's character kicked him off the platform.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick found himself transfixed by Michonne's lips, watching the shapes they made as she spoke. He knew he was liable to look like an idiot, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Sorry about that," Michonne ended her call, grinning apologetically at him. "Work won't quit sometimes."

Rick nodded, familiar with the feeling, tearing himself away from his musings about her mouth. "Law and order don't sleep," he smiled.

"No they don't," she sighed lightly. She adjusted the coat around her dress, a clingy black number that did very little to ease Rick's libido. "Do you work long hours?"

"I do," after Lori had died, he'd thrown himself into it, desperate for the distraction. The only way to sleep had been to work himself into utter exhaustion.

Michonne glanced sideways at him, looking at him in that way he realized was uniquely her own, like she was seeing straight through him into his thoughts. "How long has it been?"

"Carl was 8," Rick knew what she was asking. "He's 12 now. So four years."

"Dre was 6," she answered his question without prompting. "I can't believe he's in middle school already."

"Time flies," his chest felt suddenly heavy, the way it always did when Lori came up.

"They say it heals," Michonne smiled wryly, her eyes flickering to the floor.

Rick reached for her on instinct, laying his hand on the small of her back, directing her towards the restaurant he'd picked.

"I think it does," his eyes centered in on her face again. He could spend hours staring at it if she'd let him. Wide round eyes rimmed in thick dark lashes, full lips, and an elegant nose, she didn't paint her face in a lot of makeup and she didn't need it. Her skin seemed to glow under the streetlights.

"Maybe it does," she agreed, those eyes turning to his, her heart-shaped lips quirking up.

"Good food helps," Rick paused at the restaurant doors, reluctantly moving his hand from her back to hold the door open for her. She swept past him, a thank you falling from her mouth. Rick was treated to the sight of her shrugging out of her coat.

"Good tastes," she complimented, turning to him. Rick kept his eyes on her face and off her cleavage with difficulty.

"I hoped you liked it," he reached for her again as the host led them to their table. "You seem like a hard lady to impress."

"Maybe," she smiled coyly at him, taking her seat. "You did a pretty good job of it in that office." Rick flushed under her praise and the way she was looking at him.

"Just trying to keep up," he deflected.

"So modest," she continued her appraisal of him as the menus arrived. Her long hair shadowed her face as she studied the selection. Rick took a moment to calm himself down. He hadn't felt nervous like this in years.

The arrival of wine and appetizers helped considerably, loosening his lips. Michonne was good company, talkative and intelligent. Dessert rolled out and Rick found an odd sense of disappointment creep in.

"Try this," she brandished her fork at him, a healthy helping of chocolate cake on the end.

"You're going to force feed me cake?" he joked, taking the opportunity to move his chair closer to hers.

"You'll thank me for it," she assured him, "It's my favorite."

Rick opened his mouth willingly, conscious of the way her eyes never left his. The cake was rich, and he let out a throaty sound of pleasure.

"You're right," he licked his lips, noticing the way Michonne's gaze moved to them immediately.

"Told you so," she moved to fork a piece into her own mouth. It never made it.

Rick leaned forward, driven by some uncontrollable urge. She met him halfway. At once, he was drunk on the taste of her, instantly addicted.

"I thought I was going to have to kiss you," she teased, a grin splitting her face. "You know, since I had to ask you out."

Rick flushed, "Come out with me tomorrow," he asked without hesitation. "There's a concert. I have tickets." They'd been a gift from his partner, along with the instructions to take a woman with him. He'd debated going all week. Now he had found the reason.

"It would be my pleasure," her smile baited him and he kissed her again, reaching for her hand this time.

"I promise you, the pleasure is all mine," he dropped a kiss on her palm. She flushed, looking pleased.

"Think the boys can handle another night without us?" she asked.

"They'll be fine."

-l-l-l-l-

"Do you hear that?" Dre sat up from his place on the couch. Carl was asleep on the other side, the controller still on his chest.

"What?" Carl sat up blearily, blinking.

"I think they're back," a car was rolling up the driveway.

"It's 1 in the morning," Carl looked at his phone in shock, then Dre.

They held eye contact for a moment before bolting up in unison, rushing for the window. Rick's truck came to a halt beside the curb. The boys watched as Rick exited first, coming around to help Dre's mom out of the other side.

"What do you think they were doing?" Dre asked, watching his mother beam at Carl's dad.

"I don't know. I don't think I want to know," Carl's eyes flicked to Dre. Both boys looked at one another, horror written on their faces.

"That's really gross," Dre recoiled from the window.

"Maybe not. Maybe they just talked," Carl attempted to recover the situation, glancing again out of the blinds. "Oh crap, they're kissing out there."

He rejoined Dre on the couch. "I think we _are_ going to be brothers," Dre said.

"Good thing we really like each other," Carl restarted their video game as the front door opened.

"Were you boys good?" Michonne's voice rang through the foyer just a moment before she appeared in the living room, Rick behind her.

"Yup. Were you?" Carl didn't miss a beat. Dre couldn't hold in his laugh.

"What are you talking about?" Rick attempted to recover.

"Mom's lipstick looks good on you, Sheriff Grimes," Dre couldn't resist the urge to tease him, delighting in Carl's guffaw and Rick's blush.

"Bedtime, now," his mom's tone left no room for argument. Still snickering, both boys complied.

"See you soon," Carl called to him, following his dad out of the house.

"See you soon," Dre pretended not to see him mom making goo-goo eyes at Carl's dad. "When's your next date?" he asked his mother as she locked up, delighting in her smile.

"Tomorrow," she turned to him, still grinning.

"Good," Dre nodded before hugging her tightly. "I like him."

"Me too," she whispered, kissing him on the head.


	30. School Daze 3

**A/N: Thank you for all the encouragement and kind words! I hope that the conclusion leaves you satisfied! This story was so fun to write, and with the weekend that we're all having, I'm glad I had the distraction.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Rick's head lolled to the back of the couch, his eyes closed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been here, making out with a woman like a teenager. Michonne was currently killing him softly, her mouth on his neck. He groaned, grasping her tighter, his palms overflowing with her curves.

"Shit, Michonne…" he knew he should be whispering romantic nothings to her, but his mind was going fuzzy.

Michonne, beautiful, graceful, successful Michonne, was straddling his lap, panting in his ear.

"I'm sorry," she straightened up, her skin flushed, her chest heaving beneath her now-wrinkled dress. "It's been so long…I just got excited—"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, his tongue racing past her lips. "Don't be sorry," he told her, lacing his fingers through her thick coils of hair.

She smiled, the action almost blinding him. He wanted to see that smile often.

"We're acting like teenagers," she seemed embarrassed, unable to meet his eyes. He liked this side of her.

"Hey Michonne," he grinned, kissing her lightly. "I like you. Like, _like_ you, like you."

She burst out laughing, her whole body bouncing in his lap. "I like you like you too, Rick."

"We can go whatever pace you want to," he moved his hands to a more conservative place on the small of her back.

"It does feel like we're going very fast," she admitted, her arms coming to rest around his neck.

She wasn't lying. They'd been out nearly every night for the last two weeks, sometimes alone, sometimes with their sons, seeing movies, eating dinner, watching television at her house. His partner wouldn't let up about it, prying for details that Rick wasn't ready to give. Whatever Michonne was to him, he wanted to keep her to himself, just for a little bit longer.

"I don't mind it," he admitted. Every moment they shared he felt more like his old self, more like Rick, and not just Carl's dad, or Lori's widower, or Sheriff Grimes.

"I don't either," her voice was quiet. She leaned her head down on his shoulder. In response, he tightened his arms around her.

"Want to go steady?" he asked, half-joking. She snorted, slapping at his chest.

"It's been a long time since you dated, hasn't it?" Michonne teased.

"Didn't want to. Not until you walked into that office," his hands were wandering again.

"Smooth talker," her fingers made their way to his hair. He sighed contentedly.

"I'll say whatever I have to say," he fired back, pulling her closer to him. "Doesn't make it not true."

Her lips brushed his skin again. "I'll go steady with you," she whispered, sending a chill racing through him.

"Thank you," he buried his face in her neck, delighting in the shudder that tore through her body. She giggled.

"Thank you?" she asked, incredulous. "You're something else, Rick."

Jokingly, he jostled her. Her giggles escalated. "You like it," he accused.

"I do," she agreed, her voice dropping into a sultry timbre that sent arousal coursing straight through him. Her wiggling took on a much more purposeful cadence. Rick felt his head lull forward.

"You're going to kill me," he bunched the hem of her dress in his fists, desperately trying to get ahold of himself.

"Why would I want to do that?" she pressed her chest flush against him, rolling her hips forward. His hands moved forward almost of their own volition, tracing the smooth skin of her thighs.

Her quiet gasps and moans as his palms trailed over her only increased his resolve to see just how unbuttoned he could make Michonne. He slanted his hands beneath her dress, kneading at her until she was like putty in his grasp.

Her fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt, popping them open efficiently until she could tug the fabric off of his shoulders. She promptly began to give as good as she got, clutching at him until Rick was sure he was making plenty of noise on his own.

"Take this off of me," her breathless instruction drew a groan from his throat. Without hesitation, Rick tugged the dress over her head, tossing it behind the couch. She stood up, disengaging so quickly that it almost left Rick disoriented. He reached for her, determined to draw her back until he realized her goal. When her fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans, Rick quickly rose to his own feet.

"Not on the couch," he managed to mumble. In a moment, he was going to be incapable of coherent thought, but now, he knew he didn't want a quick tumble on his living room sofa. He picked her up, grasping her around the waist, practically running to his bedroom. They hit his mattress in a frantic tumble, the rest of their clothing disappearing at record speed.

"The boys," Michonne made one last-ditch attempt to be logical.

"They'll be fine," he knew that Carl and Dre were likely still on the couch at Michonne's house, right where they left them. They could wait another hour. Or two.

Her concerns disappeared as his body covered hers, her legs coming to wrap tightly around him. Rick glanced down at her, taking in her kiss-swollen lips, her expression of unadulterated desire, those dark wide eyes staring back at him.

"Everything is going to change now," her voice was apprehensive, almost as though she was afraid of his response. Rick watched her form the words, felt his heart begin to race.

"I know," without preamble, he leaned down and kissed her, groaning into her open mouth as her body welcomed his. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, arching her back, folding against him like they were made for one another. His hand found hers, latching on so tightly it was almost painful. Rick readjusted, shifting his weight. Michonne voiced her protest immediately.

"Don't stop," she instructed.

Rick caught her in his arms, pulling her closer. She gasped as he moved against her, clutching at him, her head thrown back in pleasure. "I won't," he promised.

-l-l-l-l-

"So…" Carl looked over at his father from the passenger seat of his truck. Rick held in his grin, knowing exactly what his son was gearing up to ask.

"So, what?" he responded lightly, his mind still partially on the woman he had just dropped back off at her home.

"So, should Dre and I start picking out tuxedos, or what?" Carl was flat out smirking now, his clever eyes seeing right through his dad.

"Not yet," Rick laughed, laughing at his son's expression. "But hopefully you're prepared to see a lot more of each other."

Carl nodded, "That's cool. I have to teach Dre how to fight anyway."

"Maybe hold off on that," Rick suggested. He didn't need two boys on some sort of punching crusade.

"Sure," Carl's tone suggested that he had no intention of following his dad's instructions. Rick didn't mind much.

"Maybe we can all take boxing lessons," Rick said.

Carl smiled. "All four of us?"

Rick nodded. "All four of us."


	31. House Party

**A/N: This one is a request from my awesome sister for a college party story! I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"This is such a terrible idea," Michonne paused, her hand on the door handle of Glenn's modest car.

"Michonne, c'mon. You promised." Glenn turned reproachful dark eyes on his friend.

Michonne sighed, looking wearily ahead of them at the house. The rest of the suburban block outside of Atlanta was silent and dark. The home in front of them seemed to jump off of its foundations. Music was pulsing through the cracks, echoing up the road.

"We're going to get arrested," Michonne groaned.

"No we aren't," Glenn rolled her eyes, adjusting his hair in the rearview mirror one last time.

"I'm overdressed," Michonne played her last card, tugging down the hem of her spandex skirt.

"Michonne," Glenn paused, his feet stopping suddenly on the concrete. "If anything, you're underdressed." His eyes flickered to her tight ensemble and he nodded approvingly. "We promised each other we were going to get out more once we got to college, right?"

"Right," Michonne conceded reluctantly, following her best friend towards the house. She was shaky on her heels already, her steps tinier than usual to keep her dress covering everything that it needed to cover.

"This is a guy I know from class. He's studying to be a cop. He can't be that bad, right?" Glenn smiled encouragingly, his handsome face crinkling. Michonne relaxed marginally at the familiar gesture.

"Ok," she smoothed her long braids back, tossing them over her shoulder. "Let's go then."

"Good," Glenn looked delighted, opening the door for her to the party.

The sight of the living room alone threatened to send her scurrying back to the car. Whatever her idea of house parties had been before then was put to rest immediately. It was not yet 10pm, but the majority of the partygoers were already roaring drunk, staggering around the house in what Michonne supposed must have been an attempt at dancing.

"Glenn…" Michonne called out warily to her friend through clenched teeth.

"Easy, 'Chonne. Give it a chance." Glenn smiled encouragingly, his eyes flickering wildly around the living room. His smile seemed to grow impossibly wider when his eyes settled on a pretty brunette woman with bottle-green eyes. The reason for Glenn's insistence that they attend the festivities tonight became clear.

"Do. Not. Leave. Me." Michonne's teeth ground even tighter, forcing the words out with deadly inflection.

"Relax," Glenn halted his steps, attempting to look as though he had not been halfway to running off.

"Glenn!" the brunette was on the move towards them, drinks in hand, looking thrilled.

"Maggie!" Glenn practically bounced on the balls of his feet. All at once, Michonne felt a curious mixture of excitement and dread. Excitement that Glenn was clearly delighted by this bubbly woman's presence, and dread that she was about to be left alone at this kegger.

"Who's this?" Maggie's eyes darted to Michonne's face, betraying the insecurity beneath her sugary sweet question. Michonne smiled reassuringly.

"A friend," she was careful to stress the last syllable, already eager to get away from these apparent soon-to-be lovers. Glenn was practically glowing, his skin flushed, his almond-shaped eyes never leaving the woman in front of them. Michonne knew a lost cause when she saw one.

She gracefully took a step back, looking for her escape. She found it in the kitchen, a safe distance away from where her best friend was making a lovesick fool of himself. A bottle of red wine was set to replace Glenn for the night, if only she could find the damned corkscrew.

She rummaged through drawers, the bass from the music around her pulsing vaguely in her ears.

"Need this?"

The southern accent caught her completely off-guard and she let out a squeak of surprise. He was standing behind her, water dripping from his soaked light brown curls, his clothing clinging to him like a second skin. He smelled vaguely of chlorine. But it was his eyes, sparkling with mischief, (and what Michonne suspected to be alcohol) that held her attention.

"Thanks," she secured the bottle opener from him, her fingers brushing his damp skin.

"No problem," the accent made an appearance again, this time accompanied with a little smirk that sent a jolt through her. "I'm Rick," his smile widened, his eyes on her.

"Michonne," she extended her hand again, clasping his, ignoring the moisture dripping down his arm.

"Well, Michonne. I've never seen you around before," Rick's head tilted to the side, his curls flopping over with a wet slap.

"How would you know that?" she asked with a nervous laugh. "There are probably a hundred people in the house."

"I would have remembered you," something about his inflection sent her pulse fluttering.

"I'm not a big partier," she worked the tool into the soft cork, trying to keep her mind on the task at hand and not the way his shirt was doing little to disguise the muscles beneath the fabric.

"That's too bad," Rick's smile did not falter, even as he took a step towards her. "They're pretty fun."

"Jumping in the pool with your clothes on, fun?" Michonne asked, taking a stab in the dark.

"Pushed, actually," he shrugged coolly. "My boy Shane is a dumbass."

"But I bet he's dry," Michonne felt herself smirking back.

Rick was unfazed by her sarcasm. He took another sopping step forward, coaxing the bottle out of her hand. Expertly, he manipulated the cork until it gave way with a pop.

"Here," he reached for a red cup nearby from a stack, pouring her a healthy helping before emptying the bottle into another. He held the cup up grandly.

"Cheers," Michonne held her glass up to him. He mashed the plastic against hers enthusiastically.

"So, why don't you party, Michonne?" his eyes never shifted from hers while he took a long pull of his drink. Michonne felt her gaze flicker to his wine coated mouth.

"Not really my scene," she admitted.

"Ah," he took another gulp, licking his lips salaciously. Michonne felt her pulse begin to race. She took a deep sip of her own drink to steady herself. "You're one of those good girls?"

"Is that a bad thing?" she questioned, attempting to keep her voice even.

"Might be a little bit of a problem," he admitted, polishing off his drink.

"And why is that?" Michonne was genuinely curious now.

"I'm definitely not a good boy," he set his empty cup down, leaning on the counter. He took her in, his cobalt eyes never shifting from her, as though he were sizing her up.

"Why is that a problem?" she asked, unsure where this side of her was coming from. She felt flushed, and she was sure it wasn't all because of the wine.

He smiled then, the gesture starting at the corner of his lips and then spreading over his entire face. Michonne enjoyed the effect on him greatly. Nervously, she drained the rest of her cup, setting it next to his before crossing her arms over her chest, looking at him challengingly.

"I can handle myself," she informed him haughtily.

"You sure about that?" he asked her, that smile still sitting on his face.

Michonne nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The world around her had seemed to go fuzzy, the party only a dull pulsing in her ears now.

"Well, all right then." With panache, he refilled both of their cups. He took a step toward her, reaching for her hand. "Have another drink with me."

Michonne accepted the cup, ignoring the warning bells going off in her head. The wine felt heavy in her mouth, the tang of it coating her tongue. She took another deep sip as the kitchen suddenly filled up, the party crashing in from outside.

"Still standing around in them clothes?" a boisterous, dark-haired man made his presence known, laughing heartily at Rick. "I thought you were going inside to change."

"Got sidetracked," Rick's eyes never strayed from Michonne, even as his friend patted him bracingly on the back.

"Can't blame you," the new arrival eyed Michonne appreciatively. Michonne turned her attention back to Rick.

"You probably should change," she told him, desperately attempting not to look at the way his jeans seemed to be molding to his lower half.

"All right," Rick finished his second cup, shaking his friend off his shoulders. "Let's go."

"What?" Michonne looked wildly around, wondering how she'd gotten herself in this situation. The wine was rushing to her head now. She realized with a start that she had drunken nearly half the bottle.

"You want to stay down here with them?" Rick asked knowingly, gesturing to where his friend had already begun to pour shots at the counter. The scent of vodka seemed to lure in dozens more of partiers. Glenn and his new beau were not among them.

"No," Michonne responded quickly.

"Then c'mon," Rick reached for her hand. Michonne took it, teetering uncertainly on her heels.

He pointed them in the direction of the staircase, her trailing just a step behind him.

"Are we allowed up here?" Michonne questioned, slowing down.

He smiled at her again, amused. "I know the owner. I'll give you the tour," he assured her, pulling her towards a bedroom. She tripped on the deep pile of the carpet, instinctively clutching at Rick's arm. Her hand could barely fit around his bicep.

"Sorry," she tried to jerk away, embarrassed. Rick's arm snaked around her waist.

"Careful," he cautioned, guiding her to the bed. She sat down gratefully, attempting to right herself. "I'll be right back," he let her go, shooting her that charming smile before moving off.

Michonne felt her muscles tense as she sat on the mattress, her back towards the man rummaging in the dresser behind her. She could hear him changing clothes, the wet slap of the fabric as he tossed it to the floor. She focused on the wall ahead of her, sipping the wine in her hand, determined not to turn around.

"You ok?" he asked her, now clothed in a dark brown tee shirt and faded jeans.

She nodded again, trying to ignore his proximity.

"What are you so nervous about?" he saw right through her, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Just bored," she lied.

"Bored?" he looked amused. "Let's see if we can do something about that." He helped her to her feet again. "Kick those shoes off," he instructed. "They'll be fine in here."

Michonne complied, her feet screaming in relief. Rick took her hand again.

"So, I'm getting the tour?" she asked, gripping his fingers.

"Right this way," he gestured dramatically. A giggle escaped her lips.

Rick navigated them around the rooms of the house, revealing something new behind each door. The upstairs bedrooms housed smaller parties, groups of friends chatting, a rousing game of King's Cup, and a room with a pungent smell that set Rick shouting at the occupants inside not to smoke in the house. The kitchen table downstairs had been converted to a beer pong table, where dozens were gathered around. The backyard housed the pool that Rick had been pushed into, complete with a hot tub full of scantily clad women. Every room contained a new drink and its occupants were all too eager to share. By the time Michonne and Rick reached the living room, she was leaning heavily on his shoulder.

She lost her cup somewhere along the way. Now without a distraction, the reality of her situation began to set in. She was at a stranger's house, following another stranger around while they were both drunk. Maybe it was the alcohol or perhaps it was Rick, but she was enjoying herself. She had the vague impression that she was meeting his group of friends, but the wine, and the feeling of the body beside her were muddling her brain. She also caught Glenn's eye for a moment in the living room. Her best friend looked up from his lip-lock with Maggie, flushed. She smiled at him, shooting him a thumb up. Glenn returned it.

"Do you dance?" Rick's question danced over her ear, making her head swim worse than the wine.

"Are you asking me?" she turned to him, her confidence mounting.

"I am," the smirk was back.

"Then yes," any excuse to touch him seemed reasonable right now.

Rick seemingly felt the same, drawing her towards him without preamble. The beat around them shifted into one that Michonne recognized. She swiveled her hips, rolling her body, no longer cognizant of the way her skirt was riding up.

"You're going to give the men in here a heart attack," Rick's voice tickled her ear, his lips just brushing the sensitive skin. His hand dropped down to the small of her back.

In answer, Michonne spun in his arms, pressing her backside flush against him. Rick let out a low groan, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, holding on for dear life as she wound against him.

"Keep up," she teased, his words from the kitchen earlier echoing in her mind. People pressed in around them, pushing them to the corner of the room. She barely noticed. Rick's hands were burning into her thighs, his grip on her unflinching.

"You need to come to more parties," his voice was strained, his fingers brushing her bare skin beneath the hem of her dress.

Overcome with a sudden and pressing desire to find out what his lips felt like, Michonne leaned back, craning her head back. He moved towards her immediately, his mouth just touching hers.

It was at this moment that her stomach chose to express its displeasure with the amount of alcohol she drank. It hit her in a wave and she lurched forward, staggering away from Rick. It took him a moment to shift gears, but he quickly caught on.

"I got you," he was steering them through the back gate, away from the party and into a clearing of trees. Michonne fell to her knees just outside of the property, emptying her stomach into the grass. She had the vague impression that Rick was rubbing her back.

"Where's Glenn?" she asked wearily, embarrassed, tired, and suddenly sad.

"C'mon, Michonne," Rick drew her gently back to her feet. He all but carried her up the stairs, past people passed out over every surface and couples canoodling in every dark corner. They were back in the bedroom they began in. Rick laid her down on the bed, leaving a bottle of water on the nightstand.

"Drink this," he instructed calmly, "I'll find your friend."

He disappeared. Michonne drained the bottle before staggering into the bathroom. Blearily, she rinsed out her mouth and emptied her bladder before heading back to the bed. The sheets felt cool against her cheeks and smelled vaguely of the man who she'd spent the night with. Dizzily, she fell asleep.

"Good morning." Michonne thought she was dreaming of that southern accent until her eyes fluttered. Rick was leaning over her.

"What happened? Did you get Glenn?" she had a throbbing headache and a mouth full of sandpaper.

"I found him," Rick's eyes crinkled, amusement coloring his features. "He's still here. Downstairs in the den or something."

"Is he ok?" Michonne rolled over feebly, uncaring that her dress was riding up.

Rick pulled it down, sitting beside her. "He's fine. Better than fine. Him _and_ his girl."

It took a moment for Michonne to understand, but comprehension eventually dawned. "Oh," she said.

Rick laughed, the chuckle somehow soothing to her ears. He reached out to stroke her braids out of her face. "You ok?" he asked.

"My head hurts. I want to go home." She sounded pitiful to her own ears, but Rick just grinned.

"I'll take you," he offered.

"You're drunk," she countered.

He laughed again. "I was drunk last night. Nothing sleep couldn't fix."

"Last night?" Michonne sat up. "I spent the night? Who's bed is this?"

"Mine," Rick stretched out, leaning against the headboard. "Before you ask, I slept on the couch."

Michonne felt her cheeks coloring, embarrassment flooding her as the details of the party came rushing back.

"Don't worry about it," Rick seemingly read her thoughts. "You can make it up to me."

"How?" she was finding it hard to meet his eyes.

"Come dancing with me tonight," he grinned. "No drinks. Just dancing."

"Like a date?" she asked, flushing harder.

"Exactly," he smiled, pleased. His lips felt amazing when he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "C'mon Michonne," he took her hand, leading her back down the stairs.

Glenn was waiting at the front door, looking just as bad as Michonne felt.

"Hey Grimes," Glenn greeted blearily, his hair sticking up on end.

"Hey Rhee," Rick nodded. "You have a good time with Maggie?"

Glenn flushed from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. "I like her a lot."

"I hope so," Rick fished in his pocket, retrieving Glenn's car keys. He slapped them into Glenn's hand. "I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight?" Glenn and Michonne asked in unison.

"Maggie says we're going on a double date," Rick informed them. "And you know my step-sister. She usually gets her way." He turned to Michonne. "Call me in a few hours," he instructed. "I put your number in my phone."

With another kiss to the cheek for Michonne and a fist-bump for Glenn, Rick escorted the hungover pair of best friends back to the car.

"That guy's going to make a great cop one day," Glenn groaned, squinting in the sunlight as Rick waved from the front porch.

Michonne smiled through her headache. Her phone pinged from her hand. She glanced down at it.

"Can't wait for tonight," the message blinked up at her.

"So," Glenn ventured, shooting her a look from the corner of his eye as he drove them both back to campus. "Did you have fun?" he asked.

Michonne's smile widened as she texted Rick back. "I could do it again," she admitted.


	32. House Party Part 2

**A/N: Thank you for your response and feedback to the last chapter! I think this will be the last part of this story, but I hope you enjoy it! Feel free to tell me what you think or send me any requests.**

* * *

"You know, I'm starting to think the whole bad boy thing is a ruse," Michonne focused on Rick's face with difficulty.

"What makes you say that?" his hand pushed into the small of her back, his other one still wrapped firmly around her palm.

"Well," Michonne steadied her breathing, "You've been opening doors, pulling out chairs, slow dancing…" Rick had insisted on picking her up from her dorm room, sweeping up in his pickup truck and waiting for her to come outside. The sight of him in that dark blue denim shirt had nearly floored her. The closer she got to him, the sharper the picture came into focus, from his still damp curls and five o' clock shadow, to the clean scent of his cologne. Michonne was glad that she'd worn flats tonight. Her legs were weak already.

She lost her train of thought again when Rick pulled her closer, swinging her in time with the music.

"Maybe I'm not trying to scare you off," that smirk of his had done things to her last night, and right now was no exception.

"I don't scare so easily," she teased, ignoring the way her heart seemed to be hammering its way out of her chest.

"Really?" he tilted his head, leaning in closer to her. "Cause last night, you couldn't even kiss me without—"

She flushed, and Rick laughed. "I'm sorry," Michonne mumbled. It was amazing how quickly her bodied had shifted to flushed and horny to completely and utterly sick. Alcohol was a hell of a thing.

"Hey, don't be sorry," Rick leaned forward swiftly, dropping a kiss on her lips. "See? You made it this time."

Her laughter escalated, even as the blush deepened beneath her dark skin. "Maybe I shouldn't drink again," she admitted.

"Nah," Rick shook his head, the curls bouncing. "Just maybe not two whole bottles of wine."

"That was your fault," she fired back, shifting her feet as the music changed.

"True," he nodded in agreement. "To be fair, I didn't know it was your first time drinking."

"It wasn't my _first_ time," Michonne's embarrassment mounted. Rick smiled at her.

"First party then," he amended. "I hope I made it good for you."

"You did," Michonne leaned tentatively towards him, their chaste dance tonight reminding her of what it felt like to have him pressed full against her.

"Good," the pressure on her back increased until they were chest to chest. "It's definitely my favorite party so far."

"So far?" she wanted to kiss him again, wanted to make up for last night.

"Well," Rick seemed content to keep their faces just scant inches apart, his eyes boring into her. "My girl has got to be at my future parties. And if you're there, I'm betting they'll be good."

"Your girl?" Michonne's eyebrows jumped in surprise, even as her pulse raced.

"Well, I figured it's going to take a couple more dates, but yeah." Rick's forehead rested on hers, his lips just millimeters away.

"Cocky," she accused.

"Confident," he corrected.

Michonne did not answer. She was too busy kissing him. The taste of him was enough to make her dizzy again, but she attacked it with fervor anyway. Rick responded in kind, eagerly molding his mouth to hers, plunging his tongue between her lips. His hands tightened around her, dangerously close to the hem of her skirt again. She leaned into his touch, heat flooding her.

"Well hey there," the sound startled the two of them apart. Rick was the flushed one now, but Michonne was no less breathless. The couple turned towards the new arrivals.

Glenn was standing there, Maggie in hand, both looking amusedly at them.

"I see you guys got started without us," Glenn grinned.

"You're late," Michonne spoke up, surprised that she even had the ability to speak.

"Ten minutes," Glenn shrugged. "That's her fault." He nodded at Maggie.

"Couldn't get my curling iron to work," she explained, looking unapologetic. Michonne secretly wished that the iron never worked at all. She missed the feeling of Rick already.

He was unruffled, already leading her back to their table in the corner of the club. Rick helped her into their side of the booth, climbing in after her. He draped his arm casually over Michonne's shoulders, the gesture all at once familiar and foreign. Glenn's clever eyes didn't leave the couple across from him.

"So," Glenn began, "What's going on with this?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Rick fired right back, his eyes turning to his step-sister. "I slept on the couch last night. Maggie, where'd you end up?"

Maggie reddened, but tilted her chin defiantly. "With my boyfriend."

Rick tilted his head, amused. "I'm sure your boyfriend will treat you well." It was obviously a poorly veiled threat.

"I will," Glenn was undaunted. "What's going on with you and Michonne?"

"Glenn…" Michonne warned her friend but he wasn't backing down.

Rick smiled, turning his head to look at Michonne. "What's going on with us?" he asked her, looking curious.

"We're…" Michonne frantically scrambled to find a way to define how she felt about this man beside her. "We're dating," she settled on the safe title, directing her attention to the menu.

"We're dating," Rick echoed, grinning as a waitress brought water to the table.

Glenn nodded, seemingly satisfied. "I'm sure you'll treat Michonne well," he repeated Rick's words back to him.

Rick's smile widened. He let his arm drop from her shoulders to the seat between them, his fingers curling around hers. "I'm sure Michonne will let me know if I mess up," he said.

"You're doing great so far," she couldn't keep the smile off of her face. Even as food arrived and small talk deepened until both couples were comfortable, her mind was focused almost exclusively on the man beside her. He had an easy, affable nature that was magnetizing.

"Well," he asked her later, the faint traces of a grin playing across his face. "Guess I should get you back home." Glenn and Maggie had already departed, certainly rushing off for their next tryst.

"I don't want to go home," Michonne felt her lips shaping the words almost without her permission.

"No?" he looked surprised, his head tilting.

"No," she shook her head, her braids brushing down her back as she moved.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

Michonne stared at him, eyes wide, blood pumping, unsure if she would even be able to articulate what she wanted.

"I—" she began, flushing despite the coolness of the air around them.

"You sure?" Rick seemed to know what she was asking for.

She nodded, swallowing hard. "I am." Maybe she didn't know exactly what she was wanted, but she knew she needed it. Badly.

"All right then," that accent twanged over her ear, accompanied by the feeling of his hand gripping hers. She sat rigidly in the truck, damn near hyperventilating as they got closer and closer to his home. Michonne briefly considered changing her mind until she looked over at Rick at a stop light. He was looking back at her, his eyes burning with something she had never seen before but instantly recognized.

That look deepened as he led her to his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

"Michonne, you comfortable?" he asked her as she settled on the bed.

"Come here," she leaned backwards into his pillows, reaching for him. Rick toed off his boots quickly, joining her on the plush surface.

He settled his weight on top of her, covering her body with his, his lips meeting hers in a slow kiss. The feeling from last night ignited again, burning through her limbs, powering her body. His hands were everywhere, stroking and tugging at her until Michonne could not control her gasps. It became clear to her that alcohol had only been a minor factor in how she was feeling last night; Rick had been responsible for her intoxication.

"Rick," she whispered his name, sighing as his mouth trailed down her neck. Her hands clutched at his arms, working their way down until she could slide them beneath his shirt. He paused, shedding the offending article.

"You ok?" he misread her open-mouthed stare.

In answer, she lunged forward, wrapping her legs around his waist. The groan that escaped his throat only egged her on. She shimmied out of her dress, glad that she had taken the time to select pretty underwear before their date. Rick wasted no time in moving his mouth to her newly exposed skin, working her over until her head lulled back.

"Does that feel good?" his voice was a rough whisper against her skin as his hand slipped beneath the delicate lace.

"Yes," she gasped, her fingernails digging into Rick's shoulders.

He increased his pressure, his lips on hers, his fingers working their magic. It was everything; the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of his hands, the heat pressing hard into her stomach. Michonne let out a cry as her body contracted and released in one spectacular moment, going limp beneath Rick's body.

"Holy crap," she sighed, flushed and sweating.

Rick rolled over, lying beside her, looking all too proud of himself. "Feeling good?" he questioned.

She smiled at him, uncaring that he was teasing. "I just need a second. Then we can…" she gestured weakly.

Rick laughed, his deep voice rolling over her. "We don't have to do that tonight." He leaned over to kiss her, lingering to nuzzle her neck.

"What about you?" there was still a very pronounced bulge in his jeans.

"I'll be fine," he assured her. "We don't have to do it all tonight."

Michonne opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a burning kiss.

"You're my girl now, remember?" he asked, still smiling. "We've got plenty of time."

Michonne smiled at him, her heart filling up with affection. "But what if I want to touch you?" she whispered, rolling over, her fingers working their way beneath his waistband.

Rick let out a deep groan, his head falling forward as his breathing stuttered. Michonne tightened her hand around him, tugging gently.

"I'm not going to tell you no," Rick let out one last laugh before Michonne rendered him incapable of coherent thought.

Afterwards, the new couple laid in bed together in comfortable silence. Rick's arm was around her waist, his head buried in her hair.

"Spend the night again," he whispered, his voice heavy with sleep.

Michonne smiled, spinning in his arms until she could face him. "Ok," she agreed, kissing him on the forehead. She watched him as he fell asleep before drifting off herself, wondering whether a house party could be the thing that changed her life forever.


	33. Soulmates

**A/N: Just a little story inspired by a sleepless night. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

It's not that Michonne didn't believe in soulmates. As a matter of fact, she believed in this concept emphatically, without question.

It's simply that she thought she didn't have one.

It had been a startling realization at first, but time and experience had proved her point. Her friends had soulmates, her coworkers fell head over heels seemingly without trying, her cousins, the women in her kickboxing class, the barista at the coffee shop near her apartment—they all had soulmates and she was happy for them. She listened to their stories contently, doled out words of encouragement, signed wedding cards with a flourish, cooed over rings, debated which type of onesie to send for the baby shower. All the while, little by little, she discovered that if it was possible to have a soulmate, it was also possible to _not_ have one.

Not to say she had never loved. She had, and deeply, in the way that was satisfying if not perfect. It wasn't the kind of story that was going to inspire poetry, and Mike was no romance novel hero, but he was enough and she was enough for him. Through him, Michonne had learned a whole other truth. There were different kinds of love, and Mike had gifted her with one better than a soulmate.

She still thought about him often, her cherubic little toddler with his daddy's eyes and her smile. Andre had been a love like no other, so bottomless, so unconditional, that it lingered after his death, a deep burn that she had no intention of ever healing from.

And so, as the world went to flames around her, Michonne carried with her those two great loves, simmering just under the surface, so out of sight that no one ever seemed to notice them. It fueled her, spurred her, kept her alive.

It was here, in the ashes of the old world, that she learned another type of love.

This one was slow, almost undetectable. It began as something akin to loathing, borne out of desperation and necessity, out of weakness. The world was full of broken souls, herself among them. He was no different. Not at first.

Then suddenly, he was. A friendly acquaintance first, then a confidant. Soon enough, his was a face she did not mind seeing, a voice she longed to hear, a comforting presence that did something to her. Like a balm, he began to heal her from the inside out, day by day.

And while life did not get easier, not by any stretch of the imagination, it somehow felt more possible now. Almost enjoyable.

Michonne's views on soulmates shifted. Perhaps a soulmate was not always romantic. Perhaps it was the partner that life gave you when the going got tough. Baptized by blood and hunger, pain and suffering, their partnership strengthened. She could have been content then, satisfied with simply this.

Until he kissed her. After that, Michonne knew she would never be satisfied again.

It was never enough, his touch, his affection, his words, his time. She always left wanting more. Needing more until she wasn't sure how she had existed at all before him.

She watched him sleep, her friend, her partner, her lover, realizing that her soulmate had found her. There were no announcements, no photos, no rings, no ceremony, but he was there nonetheless.

She'd finally coaxed him to sleep, her steady affections and the feeling of her fingers on his scalp, lulling him off. She lay frozen, scarcely breathing, loathe to shatter the fragile reality of what she had managed to create. He wasn't sleeping well, not for weeks. She knew this, though he tried to hide it. Always carrying the burden of this new world, her soulmate was exhausting himself.

Michonne would take the weight on herself for just a moment.

She watched Rick Grimes sleep, relishing in the slow rise and fall of his bare chest, the sound of his soft breathing, the feeling of his arm looped around her waist, his hair against her shoulder. Just as she had known that soulmates existed, that survival was possible, that fighting was necessary, she knew that there was not a thing she would not do to protect this person beside her.

She smiled to herself, settling contently in the quiet dark. She almost felt bad for Negan.

He had no idea who he was messing with.


	34. Soulmates 2

**A/N: A companion piece to go with the last chapter. Rick reflects.**

 **Enjoy**

* * *

Rick Grimes found his soulmate early in life. Or at least, that's what he used to believe. It wasn't until after the wedding that he began to have his doubts.

That is not to say that there was anything wrong with his wife. Lori did the best she could, loved him as much as she was capable of. He hoped that she knew that he tried to do the same for her.

Sometimes people outgrew one another. Sometimes, they believed you were dead and took up with your best friend. Life was funny like that. Even now, even with the world gone to hell, it surprised him how much that first failure hurt. It had started so innocently, young love, high school sweethearts, King's County at their feet. Then came Carl, and Rick was sure he would never love a person more than he did that bright-eyed boy with the band of freckles, was convinced he could never love a woman more than his wife who brought that boy into the world.

Despite that, the woman he thought was his soulmate died in a dark, dank cell without him, and he was fairly certain that he did not love her at that time. Some days, it felt like he hated her.

He now knew that it was pain, not hate, the sting of decades of history unraveling at their feet, the disappointment in discovering that she did not want to fix it, that he wasn't sure that _he_ wanted to fix it. Perhaps, with time, they may have been able to salvage their marriage, to have existed together, to raise Carl. In reality, Lori died, leaving their son and a daughter that Rick knew in his heart was not his.

Still, he picked his children up, determined to survive, determined not to let the guilt swallow him whole. He could make it, at least for a few years, at least long enough to ensure that Carl grew up, that Judith learned to protect herself. When he was sure of that, maybe he'd find some rest.

Instead, he found Michonne.

She scared him. He was man enough to admit that. From the moment they met, she challenged him, shook him to his core. It was a fear that was foreign to him at the time, an emotion he did not recognize when it first reared its head. He understood what that emotion was now.

At times it baffled him that he would find that here, at the end of the world. He'd lost himself some half-dozen times since the beginning of this, and each time, she was there. Immovable, untiring, she was unrelenting in her naked emotions, in her pursuit to keep him human. They both had their ghosts, but it wasn't until she stumbled bleeding to that prison gates that the healing began.

"Michonne," he called her name quietly, delighting when she turned those dark eyes towards him.

"Rick?" his name was a question on her lips.

"C'mere," he drew her away from her task, tugging gently at her arm. She came willingly, crawling into his lap. Rick wasted no time in securing her in place, holding her body against his. He had spent a year desperately wishing he could touch her. Now that she allowed him to, he had no intention of stopping.

"What is it?" her voice, still soft, did nothing to disguise her concern. Rick knew that she worried about him as much as he worried about her. There was a comfort of sorts to be drawn from that.

He laced her fingers with hers. She squeezed back instinctively. Rick took a moment simply to look at her, content in this quiet moment. She leaned into him, her forehead resting on his.

"I love you," he whispered this into her hair, relieved at once to say this out loud and without shame.

She turned her face in towards his, the smile lifting her full lips just a second before they met his. Her kisses always began as just a flutter, almost tentative. Rick had no qualms about the fervor with which he kissed her back.

"I love you too," her confession slipped between them, igniting something inside him that Rick was sure he had never felt before.

At once, he understood the feeling at the prison fence, the reason for his fear, the reason that he fought, the reason that he lived.

Some people met their soulmates in high school. Some met them during the apocalypse.

Life was funny like that sometimes.


	35. Election Night

**A/N: Hello everybody! Here's another AU. Michonne's running for office, Rick's a bodyguard...sparks fly. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

"We really have to stop doing this, Rick," Michonne stretched her body, drawing her arms over her head.

"You keep saying that," Rick's distinct southern twang was accompanied by a little smirk. She grinned back, her eyes still firmly fixed on him.

"I'm saying it for your own good," Michonne insisted, leaning forward. Rick didn't hesitate, his hands coming up to caress her bare skin.

"Oh, for _my_ good," he repeated, incredulous. She sighed contently as he massaged her. "Not because _you're_ sleeping with the enemy."

"Yes, _your_ good," she imitated his accent, rolling her hips forward. "It's going to be really embarrassing for you when I put you out of a job tonight."

He smiled outright at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners before he pulled her down over him. In just a few seconds, he successfully reversed their positions. Michonne let out an involuntary gasp as he settled between her legs.

"We'll see about that," he challenged, trailing wet kisses down her neck to her breasts. She was reaching for him before she even realized her actions, curving her arms around his neck and dragging him up to her face.

"Can't you stay?" her voice was just a whisper against his lips.

Rick wrapped his arms around her, his calloused palms holding her bare body against his. Michonne ran her hands down the curve of his back and tucked her head into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne.

"I have to go," he sounded regretful for just a moment, brushing a kiss over her neck. "Can't make a bad impression on my last night of the job."

Michonne succumbed to laughter, shaking against him. He delivered one last kiss before pulling back. He was up and sifting through their pile of discarded clothing before Michonne found the strength to sit up.

"Rick," Michonne sat up, her long locs swinging down her back as she called after him. She admired the view as he shimmied into his jeans, scooping his plain white tee off the floor.

"Yes, Michonne?" he paused, one foot already in his Doc Martins, the other boot in hand.

She paused, unsure. "You've got my number. Remember to call me when you need a job." The joke came naturally, but she felt a strange sort of guilt the moment it left her lips.

"Sure thing," Rick finished the task of dressing and headed for the door. His chuckle echoed after he left.

Michonne felt his absence immediately. In his place, the tasks of the day loomed ahead of her, daunting and cold. She felt a sudden desire to never leave bed, to roll into the sheets that still smelled of his cologne and her coconut oil shampoo and go back to sleep. She wondered vaguely whether he had reached his car, whether he was already on his way to headquarters. The other side would be scrambling today, already in motion as they made their final push. She ought to get up too, get her dress and heels on. Instead, she buried her face in the pillow.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her cellphone. Snapping to attention, she answered.

"Good morning, Senator," Michonne's assistant's voice sing-songed in her ears.

"Don't jinx it, Maggie," Michonne cautioned, kicking the blankets off of her legs.

"There's nothing to jinx. They'd be fools not to vote for you."

"Plenty of fools have been in office before," Michonne reminded her, not unkindly. She appreciated her team's enthusiasm, Maggie chief among them.

"True," the young woman acquiesced. "But I don't think Phillip is going to be one of them."

Michonne laughed lightly, already feeling better. She left the bed in one smooth motion, heading for the bathroom, naked as the day she was born. She flipped on the shower and let the water heat up.

"I'll see you at headquarters," Michonne told her assistant and friend.

"Breakfast is waiting for you," Maggie said by way of farewell.

It turned out that not only breakfast, but lunch and dinner as well were to be held in the conference room of the hotel downstairs. Michonne sifted through paperwork, listened to well-wishes (and some curses too) and posed thoughtfully for photos as she went about the civic duty of casting her own ballot. It was surreal to see her name in that blocky black print, listed above Phillip Blake. She'd worked for nearly a decade to get here. She was close now, so close that she could taste it. It terrified her.

"Just voted." The text message pinged into her phone sometime in the late afternoon, when she was changing out of her tasteful work dress and into something more worthy of ballroom attire.

"Oh yeah?" Michonne smiled as she text back, sitting still as a stylist fussed with her long locs. "Did I get your vote?"

"Can't tell you. It's a total conflict of interest. Who do you think I am?" she could hear his teasing tone in her head as she read his response.

"Of course. So sorry. You would never cross the line, Grimes." It was hard to keep her grin in check as the three little dots danced on her phone screen.

"Just the once," his response popped up in segments. "Asked out my boss' opponent. Totally worth it."

A strange pang went through her as Michonne pictured Rick, leaning against the wall, much like her bodyguard was now. Phillip was probably getting ready the same as her, shellacking his hair in place. Michonne glanced once at the burly redheaded man tasked with watching her, wishing that it was Rick instead.

"Ready?" Maggie's voice interrupted her musings for the second time. This time, she was accompanied by her husband and partner.

"Let's go see you win this thing," Glenn Rhee's smile erased Michonne's temporary nervousness.

"All right," she was swept out of the room and around the corner.

Her entrance into the ballroom was surreal, the kind of modern woman's fairytale as she swept around between donors, potential constituents, and members of the party. She shook hands, smiled for cameras, delivered more hugs and thank you's and well-wishes than she ever thought possible. All the while, her phone sat quietly in her clutch, just out of reach.

CNN was the first to announce her victory, but the rest of the outlets followed in relatively quick succession, even Fox. There was no disputing it. She'd won in a landslide.

Michonne barely heard Phillip's voice as he called grudgingly to congratulate her, barely tasted the champagne, could barely see the grinning faces around her through all of the lens flashes. Her feet ached, she was hungry, and her dress was just a hair too tight. As thrilled as she was to win, the real work began now. She wanted to rest, wanted to go over her goals, wanted to prepare for the actual fight ahead.

Instead, she partied, the way she was expected to, smiling until the moment she was finally able to retire, claiming that senators needed their rest.

Her hotel room was quiet, clean and orderly. Abe stood at the door, grinning at her.

"Have a good night, Senator," his bushy mustache did nothing to conceal his glee. Michonne hugged him, grateful.

"Good night, Abe," she called to him, closing the door with a snap.

Her dress hit the carpeted floor in record time, then her shoes, and jewelry. She felt much more like herself in her own skin. She washed her face and brushed her teeth, finally remembering the phone in her clutch. She dove for it, disappointed to see that of the many, many messages blinking up at her, Rick's number was not one of them.

She called and the line rang twice before being heralded to voicemail. She contemplated leaving one for just a moment before hanging up. Instead, she showered again, slipped into her over-sized t-shirt from Howard University, and climbed into bed.

The knock came just after midnight, right as she began to drift asleep. Groggily, she stood up, forgetting for a moment that senators don't answer their own doors in the middle of the night.

"Hey there, Senator," the southern twang woke her up at once, as did his smile.

"Rick," she stepped back to admit him, even as she fixed her mouth to admonish him. "You shouldn't be here…"

"Why not?" he asked on a grin. "I thought you told me to look you up if I needed a job." He shut the door behind him. "I'm really here to see Abe," he teased. "But first, I want to see why you didn't answer my text."

Michonne smiled despite herself. "I was a little busy."

"You're about to be a lot more than a little busy," Rick chuckled. "Congratulations, Senator."

He hugged her and Michonne melted into his embrace. "Was Phillip pissed?" she whispered, unable to resist the petty inkling.

"Furious. Kicked a trash can backstage," Rick disclosed without missing a beat, holding her tighter. "It didn't help that I quit."

"You quit?" she asked, surprised. Her eyes widened, but Rick just shrugged.

"Totally worth it,"he told her, kissing her cheek gently. "I was planning on just living off you. You know, a trophy husband. Every senator needs one."

Michonne giggled into his suit jacket, the reality of it all sinking in. She had won.

She had won.

"I'm taking applications," she told him. "We'll have to see if you measure up."

"Guess I better go see if Abe's hiring more for the security team," Rick pulled back just the slightest.

"It can wait until morning," she tugged at his lapels, suddenly struck with an urge to celebrate.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes betraying just a hint of his uncertainty.

"Stay," she told him, grasping his hand. "I'll put in a good word for you."

"Can't say no to that," Rick agreed, pulling her towards him.

Michonne backed them up towards her bed, yanking him down with her to the mattress.

"For the record," his voice cracked as her lips nipped at him. "I voted for you."

Michonne smiled, reaching over to turn off the light. "I know," she told him, before silencing him with a kiss.


	36. Election Night 2

**A/N: Part Two of Election Night is a prequel. Rick and Michonne meet from opposite sides of the aisle...**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Look alive, Grimes. I'm not paying you to stand around looking pretty." The sardonic southern accent bit at Rick's ears, immediately rubbing him the wrong way. The man from whom the voice emitted completed the image. Over six feet tall with unnaturally perfect hair, Philip Blake was the picture of conservative family values to his potential constituents. Those who worked with him knew better.

Phillip Blake was an asshole.

Rick swallowed thickly, biting his tongue for presumably the hundredth time this morning. His boss took his silence as compliance, already moving along on his list of people to verbally abuse.

"This Michonne, she's gaining in the polls," Philip's southern accent was far less polished behind the scenes.

"She's a novelty, sir," Blake's assistant, Milton, a mousy man with rectangular glasses, piped up on queue. "They'll grow tired of her. My numbers—"

"Are bullshit," Blake finished. "I'm not taking any risks. Find me something I can use against her."

It took every ounce of self-control for Rick not to roll his eyes. Philip Blake would have made an excellent dictator in another life. His hatred for his opponent burned bright. Rick suspected that the fact that a Black woman had the gall to run against him burned the hell out of Blake's chaps.

"She's a problem," he clipped out, pausing to adjust his hair and tie in the mirror backstage. "She needs to be dealt with."

Rick's eye twitched again.

"She's young. Unseasoned. You have the support of the party—" Milton tried again.

"Find something I can use," Blake interjected, acting as though his assistant hadn't spoken at all.

"I will," Milton was doing the stuttering thing again. Rick almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Where the hell is my wife?" Blake turned his attention elsewhere, eyes sweeping for the platinum blonde. Rick hadn't exchanged a word with her in the month since he took this gig, and he didn't care to change that. Mrs. Blake was just as unpleasant as her husband.

"I'm here," she appeared in a click of heels and a cloud of perfume and bad attitude, her waves of hair seemingly glued around her head. She took her husband's arm. At once, their scowls melted into smiles that could have graced a Colgate ad. Rick watched them sweep onto the stage, happy to retreat to his place with the other bodyguards just behind the curtain.

He spotted Abe, an old colleague, standing up ramrod straight. The redhead caught his eye, grinning.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Abe started in immediately. Rick felt his mood improve marginally.

"Abe," he nodded.

"Shane hook you up?" he asked, shaking Rick's hand.

"That obvious?" Rick took his place beside him, facing the pulpit. His clients had emerged to raucous applause. Rick's stomach turned.

"Politics ain't really your scene," Abe snorted lowly.

"And they're yours?" Rick scoffed. He couldn't imagine a more politically incorrect person than the man beside him.

"I at least served old Uncle Sam," Abe grinned. "You couldn't cut basic training."

"It's good money," Rick shrugged slightly. This was his daily mantra.

"Better you than me," Abe's eyes locked onto the Blakes. "Ain't never seen a bigger pair of assholes."

Rick held in his laugh and his agreement. "How's your girl?" he asked.

Abe's smile widened. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the arrival of the client in question.

"Excuse me," a lilting voice drew Rick's attention. His eyes flickered momentarily to the woman walking out on stage, head high and shoulders back.

Rick dropped his jaw. He'd seen pictures of her, clips on the evening news. None of them did her justice. He hadn't seen a person look less like a politician. Her dark locs were fixed back from her forehead in a simple but striking updo. Her skin seemed to glow under the stage lights, dark like polished bronze. She swept past him in a swirl of vanilla and sandalwood, her heels clicking as she took her place on the podium. Rick stared in shock.

"Is that her?" Rick whispered under his breath. He wasn't looking at the Blakes at all anymore.

"That's her," Abe smirked knowingly, his eyes never leaving his client. "Michonne Bechet. Atlanta Councilwoman. Might be an Obama in the making."

"Holy shit," Rick's statement came out almost as a gasp. "I'm going to kill Shane."

Abe chuckled, arms folded in front of him, the hint of amusement playing beneath his facial hair. "Walsh did you a favor."

"How do you figure?" It damn sure didn't feel like a favor from where Rick was standing. From where he was standing, it looked like Abe got to guard the gorgeous, progressive candidate while Rick got stuck with Philip Blake.

"He knows you, man. You couldn't handle her," Abe's lips barely moved as they muttered quietly to one another.

Rick didn't answer. There were plenty of ways he suddenly wanted to handle the woman in front of him, none of them professional. "You might have a point," he admitted.

Abe grunted his agreement.

Rick wasn't one for politics, but he paid close attention to the debate that night. He'd heard Blake's stance a million and a half times, but Michonne's words stuck with him. She had vision, she had panache, she had charisma, and she was a hell of a looker. Michonne faced the jeering crowd without so much as flinching. If Blake's sardonic insults affected her, she didn't show it. She answered the debate questions in a clear, high voice, outlining her point until even the crowd seemed to silence before her.

Blake hated her.

"Find me something on her," he reiterated that night, taking a break from his hooting and hollering and cursing to address Milton. "Before this gets out of control."

By debate number two, it was clear that the situation had long since gotten out of control. Michonne was gaining in the polls. Blake couldn't maintain his polite façade. Their meeting at a charity ball quickly divested into petty remarks. Rick reddened behind his boss while Michonne took the insults on the chin.

"Asshole," Abe was angrier even than Rick, his eyes burning holes into Blake as he sipped champagne and schmoozed with donors.

"Dick," Rick agreed, fighting the urge to knock his employer in the back of his head with the butt of his gun.

"Abe," they were interrupted once more by the dark horse candidate. She looked stunning in her little black dress, her hair pulled up in a bun.

"What do you need, darling?" Abe came to attention at once. Rick resisted the urge to step forwards towards her.

"I'm tired," she announced this with the air of one discussing the weather. Only the weariness in her eyes betrayed her actual feelings.

"All right," Abe nodded, mobilizing her people at once. Rick was left standing there, staring at her, anger burning in the pit of his stomach at the way this woman was treated. She glanced back, her expression mildly curious.

"Don't let him bother you," Rick's mouth was moving before he even realized it. "He's scared of you."

She looked surprised for a fraction of a second, then her expression changed. Her laugh, clear and melodious, got him through the rest of the night, even as Blake snarked at everyone around him.

"Thank you," she told him as Abe swept her off, throwing Rick a knowing look from beneath his bushy brow.

Rick and Michonne met again at a community center groundbreaking. She was just as stunning in jeans and a blouse as an evening gown. She smiled at him this time, greeting him kindly as she passed. Rick ignored Blake's burning glare to smile back.

"Maybe you're not useless after all," Blake mused later, unaware of how close he was to getting punched squarely in his face. "She's likes the working class type. Talk to her next time. See what you can find out."

Rick seized the opportunity. He found her a week later, sitting at the bar, her ankles crossed, her hair hanging freely down her back. He beelined for her.

"Rick," his name sounded regal coming from her lips. "Should you be talking to me?" she seemed amused. Her hand cupped her chin as she stared up at him, her confidence burning bright.

"It's my day off," he told her. This was true. Both candidates were stationed in the same hotel. He bumped into her at the bar downstairs. He'd come down to meet Abe for a drink, but changed course the moment he spotted her.

"Blake gives you those?" she quipped, sipping prettily from her beer.

Rick laughed. Behind them, Abe watched, amused. Rick caught his eye, silently begging his friend to leave them alone.

"You owe me," Rick read Abe's lips from across the bar. Rick happily sent over a drink to keep him occupied.

"How do I know you're not a spy?" Michonne questioned lightly a few moments later. There was something underlying in her tone that let Rick know she was not joking.

"You can ask Abe what I think of my employer," Rick didn't miss a beat. Truth was, he hated Philip Blake. Work had become the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

"What do you think of me?" she asked, taking another draw. Rick's eyes flicked to her lips. He swallowed thickly.

"I might vote for you," he told her, taking a gulp to steady himself.

"Just _might_?" she sounded so incredulous that for a moment Rick feared she was serious. Then she smiled around the mouth of her bottle. Rick grinned back.

"Learn anything interesting?" Blake asked the next morning.

Rick had learned her favorite drink, her cat's name, that she loved action movies, and got into politics to fight for the voiceless.

"Nope," Rick answered. Blake glared. Rick did not flinch. Blake eventually moved off.

"Are you making a move on my client?" Abe asked later, when both of them were stationed behind the scenes of debate number 3.

"I'm thinking about it," Rick did not hesitate to answer. It was all he seemed to think about.

"You're going to get fired," Abe rolled his eyes.

"Might be worth it." There was no might about it. If Rick had half a chance, he'd take it.

"I'm going to regret this," Abe sighed, then pulled out his phone. "She asked me for your number."

Rick punched it into Abe's phone at lightning speed.

Her first text came the following Saturday afternoon. Phillip and his wife were drunk at the pool and Rick was bored to tears.

"What's it going to take to get your vote?" the question blinked up at him under the bright light of the afternoon sun.

"Want to talk about it over dinner?" he text back, waiting with baited breath while the three dots flashed at him.

"It can't be public."

Rick's heart jumped. Trying to contain his excitement, he text back. "I know a place. No one will bother us."

Her response took a full five minutes, but eventually it pinged in.

"Sounds great."

Rick read her message, sitting contently and grinning while Blake yelled at Milton from across the pool.


	37. Election Night 3

**A/N: Rick and Michonne have two nights of firsts, 8 years apart... Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Then...**

"You didn't take me out here just to murder me, did you?" Michonne picked her way across the pebbled terrain, watching her step.

"Nah," Rick grinned over his shoulder, his face crinkling in his amusement. "People would ask too many questions. Better to hire someone else."

She laughed despite herself. The air here was chilly, almost cold, and she had a mountain of work waiting for her in her office. Maggie was sure to give her a verbal thrashing tomorrow.

Still, the company made it worth it.

"So, what _are_ we doing out here then?" she questioned the man walking beside her.

"I figured you could use some peace and quiet," Rick told her.

"Well, you picked a good place," she looked around, taking in the dark shadows of the trees off in the distance. They'd driven nearly 45 minutes in his old pickup truck before Rick pulled over at a scenic lookout. Michonne thought that would have been it, but Rick had seized a backpack and led them down a dirt path.

"This isn't even the place," he looked pleased with some secret he was keeping, his eyes bright in the fading afternoon light. He turned them off the path, guiding them past an outcropping of pine trees.

"Oh my gosh, Rick," Michonne's eyes widened.

"C'mon," there was no disguising the excitement on Rick's face now.

* * *

 **Now...**

"Rick, oh my gosh," Michonne's dark eyes seemed to take in the light around them, illuminating her wide smile.

"It's not the view we're used to, but I thought maybe you wouldn't mind." Rick shrugged. The air was colder up here, the breeze biting him through the fabric of his dress shirt. Michonne clung to his suit jacket, her arms folded in on herself.

"We've been here less than an hour and you're already breaking the rules," she teased.

Rick spread the blanket in his hands out, dropping down on it. "Some rules were made to be broken," he quipped.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "You're so corny." She lowered herself next to him, leaning back against him comfortably. Rick held her close, relishing the warmth.

"You don't mind it," he whispered into her hair, disrupting its complicated coif.

"I really don't," she agreed, sighing contently.

* * *

 **Then...**

"You're so corny," Michonne giggled, feeling suddenly warm.

"What?" Rick shrugged, sitting dramatically on the quilted picnic blanket. In front of them, the sun was beginning to set behind the edge of the ridge.

"A sunset picnic?" Michonne shook her head, her legs carrying her forward on their own volition.

"Don't need to reinvent the wheel," he patted the space next to him. "Stick with what works."

She sat down, her leg just millimeters from his, feeling flushed. "So is this what works with all of the ladies?" she batted her eyelashes dramatically.

"I only need it to work with one lady," Rick's wit was as quick as ever.

"All right," Michonne found herself unable to meet his eyes, "That was pretty smooth."

"Gotta be pretty smooth for such a pretty lady," Rick handed her a thermos from his backpack. With a flourish, he poured out a cup of wine for each of them.

"And you're back to corny," she laughed nonetheless. He was staring at her as though he was appraising her, his lips quirked at the corners. Michonne tore her eyes reluctantly away from him to take in their surroundings.

"Do you like it?" Rick asked.

Michonne smiled at his earnestness. "It's beautiful. And peaceful."

"And, no Phillip Blake," Rick raised his cup, cocking a brow.

"No Phillip Blake," she agreed joyfully, knocking her cup against his.

They both took long draws, exchanging sporadic eye contact.

"You know—" they both began at the same time then paused.

"You first," Rick instructed, laughing.

Michonne chuckled back. "I was going to say that this is the first time I've had peace and quiet since I decided to run."

"Maybe I can break you out a few more times," Rick suggested, attempting to subtly scoot closer to her.

"That's fraternizing with the enemy," her hand brushed his. He caught her fingers, holding them against his own.

"What if I really hate my boss?" Rick asked, his expression comically hopeful.

"Maybe I'll make an exception," she leaned forward. Rick met her halfway.

* * *

 **Now...**

"I think the stars are just as pretty here," Michonne observed, tucking her head against his chest.

"Better than Atlanta?" he asked.

Michonne considered this. "Not better, just different."

"I can live with that," Rick kissed her forehead.

Michonne laughed. "Good. You don't really have a choice. There's no backing out now."

"What?!" Rick feigned shock. "When did we agree to that?"

"About 8 years ago," Michonne tilted her chin up defiantly.

"I don't remember that," Rick groused.

"You wanted to be a trophy-husband, Grimes. You're in this now." Her tone left no room for argument. She tugged at his tie to drive her point home.

"I guess I'll stay," Rick could feel her laughing against him. "The view up here is really nice. Plus, the perks are going to be great."

"Better than being a bodyguard?" she giggled.

"Those perks were unexpected." Rick pulled her into his lap.

* * *

 **Then...**

"How did you find out about this place?" Michonne laid contently across the blanket, Rick beside her. She should have insisted they headed back hours ago, but she couldn't bring herself to move or even look at her phone.

"I grew up here," Rick's hand was warm around her own. "Well, not here," he corrected himself, "but nearby."

"Country boy?" she liked that image. She didn't know too many southern boys with values like his.

"Something like that." He turned his head to look at her, the starlight glinting off his tanned and stubbled face.

"What made you get involved with politics?" Michonne continued her line of questioning.

"I needed a job," Rick looked bashful for a moment, almost embarrassed. "I never really paid much attention to politics before…this."

Michonne smiled to herself, rolling closer to him. "Maybe you'll start paying attention now."

"I think that's a pretty sure thing," his lips were on hers again, tentative at first and then all at once passionate. Michonne gave into the pleasure of just being with him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"We should do this again," she whispered against him.

"We will," he promised, rolling her beneath him.

* * *

 **Now...**

His wife broke their kiss, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"Rick," she whispered, "Maybe we should go inside."

"Think they'll follow us to our bedroom?" Rick couldn't help his grin.

"You're the bodyguard expert, you tell me," Michonne fingered his hair, tugging gently.

"I really think they'll defer to your judgement here," Rick stood up, pulling his wife up with him.

"Everything all right, Madame President?" one of the Secret Service walked forward at once.

"We're good," Michonne glanced at him before turning her head back to her husband. "I think we're going to go to bed."

With a nod, the guards opened the door that led off the roof and back into the White House.

"Ready, First Husband?" Michonne reached for Rick's hand, her inauguration gown just visible from beneath his jacket.

"Ready, Madame President," Rick happily followed her inside their new home.

* * *

 **A few minutes later...**

"I think I liked our old bed better," Rick grumbled with a lopsided grin.

"You'll see it again in 8 years," Michonne called to him from the bathroom.

" _Two_ terms!" Rick flopped back into the pillows, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling. "I forgot we have to do this twice."

"We'll win. Again." Michonne poked her head out, the thin straps of some lace fabric gracing her shoulders. Rick's interest was immediately piqued.

"Did you see Blake?" He couldn't resist.

Michonne beamed back. "Well, he's finally a senator."

"And you're the president." Pride was swelling in his chest now.

"Madame President," she corrected, stepping out in crimson lingerie.

"Maybe the bed isn't so bad," Rick amended his statement, reaching for his wife as she came to bed.

"You'll get used to it," Michonne assured him, reaching over to turn off the light.


	38. Promises

**A/N: I'm in a glass case of emotion tonight, so here goes a little angsty ficlet. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

There was a world of things that Rick could not promise Michonne. He could not promise her that they would always have food, that they would always have warmth, that they would always be safe. He could not promise her a traditional wedding all dressed up in white, couldn't promise her the ring she deserved, the honeymoon he wished for them. He couldn't promise that the walls would hold, that the world would improve, that he could keep them all safe. He couldn't promise her that he wouldn't falter again, would not feel weak, would not collapse under the weight.

There were many things that he could not promise the love of his life, and sometimes, these shortcomings haunted him.

"Michonne," he called to her gently, his voice rife with concern.

She turned her face to him, her cheeks streaked with the remnants of tears. He was by her side in a heartbeat, the mattress groaning as he sat behind her.

"He would have been 5," her statement was so quiet that he nearly missed it. Rick understood immediately.

There were many things Rick could not give Michonne, but she did not seem to mind. Rick pulled her into his arms, holding her close as she tucked her face into his shirt. She was warm against him, her heart pounding a steady beat against his chest. Rick buried his face into her shoulder, pressing his cheek against hers as he rocked her gently. He could feel moisture gathering in the fabric of his shirt, could feel her trembling against him. Rick held her tighter.

The rain poured down against their house as Michonne's tears subsided. Rick did not relinquish his hold on her.

"Thank you," she tilted her head up, planting a kiss on the bottom of his chin.

"Any time," he promised her.


	39. Behind the Scenes

**A/N: Written for a prompt on tumblr's richonnejustdesserts:** ** ** _Rick and Michonne are actors in a show and their characters start a relationship and somehow they start to develop feelings for each other in real life.  
_ Thank you to the anonymous tumblr user for the amazing prompt :) Enjoy!  
****

* * *

"We should probably talk about what happened."

The words came out louder than he intended them to, a product of his still-frayed nerve endings and the adrenaline from practically chasing her down.

"Rick, it's ok. I really don't think we need to." She assumed a wide-eyed, doe-in-the-headlights expression, her dark irises whipping quickly to his face and away.

"Michonne, we really do," it was a testament to the seriousness of the situation that Rick was the one to insist on conversation. He was not generally a huge advocate of sharing his feelings. However, desperate times called for desperate measures.

"I get it, Rick, I do," her voice was gentler now, the sultry tone she used during their serious scenes, the kind the fans went wild for. Rick had seen the posts online, the fanatic dissections of the chemistry he and his real-life best friend had onscreen. He'd always figured it was just that: friendship.

Today's scene had blown that illusion to bits.

"I need to explain," he paused, suddenly realizing that he must have chased her off the set and halfway up the stairs to her trailer. She paused, mid-escape, her hand was on the door handle, her body half turned away from him.

"There's nothing to explain," desperation crept into her voice. Rick felt panic rip through him. Michonne had never sought to avoid him before. "I get it," she glanced over her shoulder, still unable to meet his eyes. "Guys can't always control their…reactions."

It was Rick's turn to blush, the embarrassment from their shoot this morning burning into his cheeks. "It's not that. Not _just_ that," he amended. "It's never…" he took a deep breath, steadying himself. Dozens of people were milling around onset. He was not eager to have them all know. "Can we please go inside and talk about this?" he asked Michonne, his expression pleading.

He could see her cracking, taking pity on him. "All right," she said quietly, swinging the door open. She walked ahead of him, climbing the stairs, her hips swaying. It was all he could do not to stare. He knew what the skin there felt like now, knew that his hands almost fit completely around her trim waist, that other parts of her caused his palms to overflow.

He shook his head. He was in enough trouble as it was. This was his best friend, his co-star, his leading lady. He needed to get this under control for the sake of the show and their friendship.

Her trailer smelled the way it always did, like cocoa butter lotion and whatever tea she drank this morning. It brought immediate comfort. Rick breathed deep, steadying himself.

"What is it you wanted to say?" she sat on the couch in one corner, her arms crossed over her breasts. Rick cautiously sat next to her, incredibly aware of their proximity. He never had to consider whether he was crossing a line with Michonne before, whether his presence was wanted. It was off-putting to see her avoiding contact with him.

Rick opened his mouth, determined to get this conversation going. "First off, I'm sorry," he began, his southern accent sounding rough to his ears after a whole morning of using his character's cultured tones. He plowed ahead. "I've had sex scenes before," it was an odd announcement, but it felt necessary.

"I know," Michonne laughed lightly. Rick felt himself smile. She'd been on set that day, seen the awkwardness unfold. What should have been a routine make-out scene had ended in a bloody lip. The story was now infamous on set.

"My point is, _that's_ never happened before." He drummed his hands on his legs nervously.

"Jessie didn't get your engine going?" there was too much glee in Michonne's carefully controlled tone. It sparked something in him. She never before had spoken about her opinion of the whole Jessie-fiasco, even as controversy roiled around her. Michonne was classy to the end.

"You know I didn't like her." Rick rolled his eyes. Just the thought of the bottle-blonde actress made him shudder. The fans hadn't liked her at all. Thankfully, they hadn't had to suffer her presence very long.

"She liked you," Michonne was grinning now, reverting to the familiar territory of humor. Her arms uncrossed and she let them drop down to the cushions beside them.

He smiled, "Maybe. It didn't really matter." Rick had happily put the incident behind him, grateful to be out of the tabloids and celebrity blogs.

Michonne nodded then, her eyes finding his for a long moment. "Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I would have been kind of insulted, if you didn't have a … reaction." Michonne giggled again, a nervous sound Rick hadn't heard before. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

And here was the crux of the problem. Rick was sure it _would_ happen again. The character he played had finally realized his feelings for Michonne's character. The scene was a long time in the making, a heavy kiss that moved to the bedroom. The lights were nothing new, the crew was nothing new, Michonne was nothing new.

His reaction to her was completely new.

Somewhere in between take 3 and 4, kissing Michonne had gone from a carefully staged act to something altogether different. Her lips on his were so plush, her skin so warm and pliant, and the gasps she made in between breaths…

He was completely worked up by the time the scene changed to the bedroom. When he had to climb on top of his co-star and best friend, she noticed. Her professionalism carried them both through the embarrassment, but one glaring fact remained.

"Michonne, we've worked on this show for, what now? 4 seasons together?" he asked her.

She nodded cautiously, shifting on the couch cushions. Her leg brushed his. She did not pull back.

"And we've been friends for almost all of it," Rick recounted. Their relationship had been easy, natural from the first day they had stepped onto this set. It made work easy, pleasant, something he looked forward to everyday, even when the workdays spanned over 12 hours. Her sense of humor, her work ethic, her kindness, her activism, they were all pieces of a person that Rick valued deeply.

"Best friends," she agreed, licking her lips nervously.

"I can tell you anything?" his heart was racing, liable to simply burst through his ribcage in a splash of gore that the effects department would have been envious of.

"Rick, of course," her concern won out again. She shifted her body towards him.

"I realized something today," he started slowly, hoping she'd catch on. She stared back at him, her long lashes fluttering. "Michonne," Rick began again, stuttering. "I—"

"Maybe you just need to rehearse," she suggested, cutting him off.

"Rehearse?" his pulse was thrumming in his ears, blood pounding through his veins.

"Kissing each other…it's new," she was talking much too fast now. "I mean, I felt something too, but it's probably because we've never done it before. And both of us are attractive, so the first time it was bound to happen. Maybe we just need to rehearse."

"Wait a minute," Rick shook his head, attempting to understand her point. "What do you mean you felt something too?"

She flushed suddenly, her dark skin going coppery beneath her cheeks. "We're only human. It was a good kiss."

This felt like a sinful understatement. The echo of it still lingered on his lips. "Just a good kiss?" he was desperate for answers.

"The show has been working up to it. We didn't think it would happen, especially after the whole Jessie mess," Michonne showed her cards again, scoffing around the woman's name. "It's understandable that we got a little emotional." Her eyes drifted again. She picked at a stray thread on the couch.

"So did you feel something physical, or emotional?" Rick asked, pinning her with his gaze. She held eye contact, her breathing becoming erratic beneath her costume. He'd seen it hundreds of times since they'd started on this journey, knew every stitch of fabric that made it up.

Now he wondered what was beneath it.

"Because," he ventured, his voice cracking again beneath his southern accent. He wondered vaguely if this would somehow be easier to do in his character's voice. "I felt a little bit of both. More than a little bit."

"What do you mean?" her voice was that throaty whisper again. Heat coursed through him.

"I mean, I realized today that you're not just my best friend." He took a shaky breath at the same time that Michonne let out a gasp. "I think I have feelings for you Michonne."

The statement hung in the air, suspended between the two of them.

"You realized that _now_?" she clearly did not believe him. He didn't blame her. They'd spent years together and he'd never let on even a hint. All of his affection for her, all of his kind deeds, the time spent together, escorting her up red carpets and sitting close to her in dark theaters, it could all be covered under the guise of work, or friendship. He had even convinced himself.

His body knew better. _He_ knew better now.

"I think I've known for a while." The admission was like a weight had been lifted, even as she stared in disbelief. "I just finally couldn't deny it anymore. Not after today. Not after—"

Before he finished his sentence, Michonne leaned forward and roughly seized the back of his head. Her fingers laced through the curls at the nape of his neck as she dragged him forward, pressing her lips to his for the second time that day. Rick froze, his body paralyzed, his mind struggling to catch up.

Her intentions became clear when Michonne's other hand gripped high on his thigh, coming dangerously close.

"Michonne," her name slipped from between his gritted teeth when she pulled back to breathe. He was teetering dangerously on the edge. There were no cameras in here, no sound crew, no lighting, but Michonne was still kissing him.

Her response was to crawl into his lap, pushing him backwards across her couch. Her lips found his, coaxing his mouth open. Rick's mind raced, wondering what was happening, torn between stopping her to talk it out and wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him.

She stretched across him, her hips aligned with his waist, leaning forward and arching her back. Rick's control held on by a thread. With great effort, he managed to speak.

"Michonne, what are you doing?" he opened his eyes and took her in, her round dark eyes and long lashes, her full lips and beautiful nose, the contrast of her skin on his. Her breathing was heavy, her chest heaving. Her mouth fell open as she looked down at him.

"What took you so long?" she asked quietly. Her fingers worked under the hem of his costume, holding on tight.

Rick sat up, wrapping his arms around her waist. Michonne sat still in his lap, her eyes wildly searching his face. In answer, Rick kissed her gently on the lips, then the forehead, then her cheek. Her breath hitched with every display of affection.

"I don't know, 'Chonne," he whispered, delighting in the shudder that went through her. "I wish I'd realized it months ago. Years ago." Four years of wasted time, of avoiding the elephant in the room.

"Are you sure?" her expression was serious, even as she trembled in his arms.

"Yes," the answer came quickly and easily. It had taken him years to realize it, but there was no going back now. "Do you feel the same?" he needed her answer.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth. "I do," her quiet confession set something in motion that Rick hadn't realized he'd been waiting for their whole relationship.

Seamlessly, he flipped her over. His name escaped her lips on a gasp as he settled on top of her. He kissed her again, grateful for the privacy of her trailer, for the opportunity to explore his feelings away from prying eyes. A thought occurred to him.

"To be clear," he started, lifting up enough to look at her. She was panting, her lips parted, painting such an enticing picture that Rick nearly lost his train of thought. "This isn't rehearsal, right?"

She laughed again, the sound ricocheting off the walls of her trailer. "No," she insisted, pulling him back down to her. To drive her point home, she curled her fingers into the waistband of his pants, grinning as he groaned at the sensation. He shed the offending object quickly, tossing it to the ground with no consideration for the costume department. Michonne's clothing joined in quick succession.

There was no embarrassment this time, no interruptions. Rick didn't struggle to avert his eyes from every inch of her. He kissed her dark skin, laving his tongue over her, listening to the sounds she made. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her legs ran up and down his waist, her whole body tightening beneath him like a spring.

"Rick," she whined his name, rolling her hips into his, consciously seeking out the hardness that had so embarrassed them both just a few hours ago. "Please," she pled with him.

Happily, he indulged her.

The two of them would have been mortified to know how thin the walls of the trailer were, or how fragile the shocks were. They were too occupied to notice the small crowd that had gathered just outside.

"About time," the grip, a muscular and blunt redhead named Abe announced unceremoniously.

A camera man named Glenn agreed. The pair of them paused outside the trailer for a few seconds, watching it bounce.

"Guess we should just take a lunch break," Glenn sat his camera down, leading the rest of the crew off towards the craft services table.

Inside, Rick and Michonne collapsed into each other. Rick managed to roll behind her on the couch, curving his body around his.

"I think we're going to have another problem with the scene," she exhaled, arching her back into him.

"What's that?" he kissed the back of her neck, inhaling her sweet scent.

"I'm not sure _I'm_ going to be able to control myself," she rolled her hips backwards against him.

"Tease," he accused, his energy returning.

"Who's teasing?" Michonne countered, spinning around to kiss him again. Rick wrapped her in his arms, all thought of work forgotten.


	40. Inevitable

**A/N: Just a tiny story for the holidays. Enjoy!**

* * *

"There's a Japanese phrase that I like: koi no yokan. It doesn't mean love at first sight. It's closer to love at second sight. It's the feeling when you meet someone that you're going to fall in love with them. Maybe you don't love them right away, but it's inevitable that you will."  
― Nicola Yoon, The Sun Is Also a Star

The Holidays were an inconvenient time to realize that you were in love.

With all of the Christmas cheer in the air, the cold weather, the New Year's resolutions, the decorations and general goodwill to all men, it was difficult to distinguish whether or not it was really love. Perhaps there was something going around, some sort of infatuation flu, something she could sleep off, or undo with a pill.

Unfortunately, it was not a sickness, at least not one she could shake so easily. Michonne was in love, whether she wanted to be or not.

She definitely did not want to be in love. She had things to do, places to be, goals to conquer. She had plans. Love was not part of them. In fact, when she met him, he hadn't made much an impression at all. Handsome faces were nice, but it wasn't as though there was anything inherently unique about a handsome man. They'd exchanged pleasantries and she'd gone about her business.

In fact, it was their third or fourth rendezvous before she took proper notice.

The first thing was his eyes. She'd always been partial to brown, but there was something about his baby blues. Crystal clear, intelligent, warm, he did not shy away from unflinching eye contact, always giving her his rapt attention. It unnerved her as much as it captivated her. Men's eyes were often on her, from appreciative stares to irritated eye rolls when she went toe to toe with them. This, though… this was different.

Each interaction, each conversation, each lingering look or touch was scorched into her, burning through all of her logic, all of her bravado, all of her calm, all of her carefully crafted control. Like a virus, he penetrated her, hijacking her thoughts. Was that hug just a hug, or did his hand linger too long on the small of her back? What did he mean by that compliment? Did he mean to kiss her so close to her neck, or was he going in for the cheek and missed?

She overanalyzed these details, fixating on the sound of his voice, the music in his laugh, the way he looked when he smiled at her. Conversations between friends became something else, at least to her, until she was questioning every word, every text, and every pause between responses.

Her friends seemed to know something she didn't, even as she deflected, pretended to be in control. She could admit to a crush. Crushes were simple, straightforward. He was attractive, obviously. He was kind, sure. He was charming, handsome, well-spoken, and intelligent. A crush was understandable.

So why, years later, had the novelty still not worn off? Why did her heart contract any time he spun back into her orbit? Why did she text him first every holiday, and why was she lying in bed night after night, thinking about him?

Love. The word was terrifying, the emotion immeasurably worse. Love was a commitment. Love without a commitment was a burden.

She and Rick Grimes were just friends. It was a bad look to fall in love with a friend. So she hid her feelings, burying them beneath joking comments and easy smiles. She would get through this eventually.

"Merry Christmas, Michonne," his text reached her phone before she could message him. "I hope to see more of you in the new year. :)"

It was inconvenient to fall in love with your friend, of this Michonne was sure. Still, as she leaned against the wall near her Christmas tree, her heart filled with sudden warmth, she didn't mind it so much.

Maybe, just maybe, this would all work out.


	41. Resolutions

**A/N: Some readers were asking for Rick's POV, so here you go! Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

New Year's resolutions.

Rick Grimes never much subscribed to the notion. If you were going to be better, you should just be better. Why wait for some arbitrary date to start the cycle of self-improvement? Every day you were alive was the perfect opportunity to improve. January first meant nothing more to him than a reminder that it was time to get a new calendar.

Except this year.

The first day of the first month of this year was not a random date. It was the deadline he'd given himself a year and a half ago. 548 days seemed (at the time) just long enough to let the ink of his divorce papers dry. It was long enough to get back in better shape, to find a place, to get into the swing of his new job, to make friends that didn't know him as one half of a married couple. It was enough time for Carl to get used to bouncing between houses. It was enough time to learn to be single again.

Being single had never been so difficult.

It wasn't not having Lori. Truth was, he hadn't had Lori, not really, in years. The last leg of their marriage had been learning to live without one another, and he had learned his lesson well. The issue was her. _Michonne_. A friend of a friend introduced at a house party; she'd immediately left an impression. Sure she was beautiful, sure she was intelligent, sure she shapely, and funny, and had a smile that was liable to blind him.

She was also kind. It was that kindness that made his time in single purgatory damn near impossible to bear. He wanted her. He wanted to text her whenever the urge struck, to hear her voice without feeling a deep sense of longing. He wanted to hold her hand, walk up the street together, feel her in his arms, kiss those lips he couldn't stop thinking about. He wanted all of these things and more, but he had to wait. He'd made a promise and he took those seriously, even when they were to himself. He'd failed in one relationship, he wasn't about to rush head first in and fail another.

She didn't make it easy. He had to keep his distance, terrified that every interaction would be his complete undoing. He stayed friendly, orbiting her life just enough to ensure that he stayed on her radar. She'd dated a guy or two, nothing serious, but it almost gave him a heart attack. He persisted nonetheless. Michonne deserved a man who was healed and whole. He wanted to give her that.

The one positive aspect that came from waiting was there was plenty of time to plan. So Rick checked the days off his calendar, counting down until New Year's Day. He managed to make it until 11 am that morning before dialing the number he'd memorized months ago.

"Happy New Year!" she greeted, her voice lilting cheerfully.

He almost lost his breath at the sound alone. Steadying himself, he swallowed thickly. "Happy New Year, Michonne," her name always seemed to drag across his tongue like honey.

"Rick!" she sounded excited to hear from him. His heart began to race. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Look, this might be coming out of nowhere," he began, his hands shaking, "But I've gotta ask." She stayed silent on the other end, as though she was holding her breath. "Would you like to go to dinner?"

The pause on her side nearly killed him. Finally, she spoke. "…On a date?" she asked tentatively.

He chuckled nervously. "That's what I was hoping," he admitted.

Suddenly, she was giggling right along with him. "I thought you'd never ask."

Pride swelled in his chest as a smile spread across his face. "Is tonight good?"

He hung up an hour later, after hashing out the details and then shooting the breeze, feeling like he could leap tall buildings in a single bound. He called the restaurant with the phone still warm in his hand, confirming the dinner reservation he'd made three weeks ago. He had plans to start something tonight, something he hoped would last for the long haul.

Smiling, he headed to the closet to pull out his suit. He had a few hours to kill, but he couldn't help but be nervous. Rick glanced at the calendar on his wall, brand-spanking new and gleaming with possibility.

Perhaps he'd have to revise his stance on resolutions.


	42. No Trouble At All

**A/N: Keeping with the holiday theme, here's another short to round out the previous two chapters I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Rick knew he wasn't going to buy her flowers. Michonne wasn't partial to flowers, at least not dead ones in a glass vase. She wasn't much for perfume either, or jewelry, save for the simple gold necklace she wore. She had enough hair products and lotions and salves to start her own apothecary, and he wasn't much good at picking out those sort of things anyway. No, Michonne was a unique kind of woman, the kind who required more than cliches.

The irony of this was not lost on Rick as he scoured Atlanta for Valentine's Day chocolate.

Those heart shaped boxes were everywhere, along with the foil-wrapped roses, the chalky candy hearts, chocolate dipped strawberries, and all of the other sugary sweets that had become the trappings of this commercial holiday. She'd insisted that she didn't need anything, that they'd been together just over a month, that he need not go out of his way for her. They could have Valentine's Day at her house, she assured him. Really, he shouldn't go through any trouble.

He didn't go too out of his way. After all, the shop was on his way home from work. Kind of. 20 miles wasn't too far past his house.

Rick secured his prize after much to-do, sampling item after item until he was nearly sick from the sugar. It was worth it. His find sat proudly on the front seat, wrapped in a simple pink box, the smell enough to make his mouth water.

She flat out screamed when she saw it.

"Rick!" His name became a breathless exclamation, her eyes darting between him and the sweets. "How did you find this?"

He grinned, handing her a fork from her counter. "Turns out they didn't close. They moved."

"Where?" She asked, smiling at him.

"I'll tell you later," he brandished the silverware, grandiosely gesturing to the mousse cake.

"We shouldn't spoil dinner," she said regretfully, practically salivating.

"Couldn't spoil dinner if we tried," he assured her. If he smelled what he thought he smelled, he'd be going back for double helpings.

She dove in, forking off a healthy portion before offering him a bite. Rick took a moment to peek into the oven.

"How'd you know?" He asked her with a chuckle. He hadn't had proper Southern buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken since leaving his parent's house in his youth.

She smiled, licking chocolate from her lips. "I'll tell you later," she teased.

"Thought we both weren't going to go through any trouble," he fired back, pulling her into his arms.

"It wasn't trouble," she promised, leaning up to kiss him.

Rick watched her, grinning as she finished dinner between bites of chocolate cake.


	43. The Plan

**A/N: Just a tiny short that popped into my head. Rick and Michonne in the 90s, in the summer before college. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

Michonne never thought she'd be one of _those_ girls, the ones you heard about in the locker room at school who made it to third base with some boy or the other. Those girls ended up with their phone numbers scrawled on the bathroom stall in sharpie, ended up being whispered about in the halls in front of lockers and classrooms, ended up with the torrid details of their love life being passed around in paper notes, got eyed up by every jock, nerd, and red-blooded male hoping to get laid before college. Michonne had goals in life beyond shacking up with some mediocre athlete in this one-horse town. This job was her ticket out, the paychecks needed to cover the cost of her first year at university. She squirreled the money away, counting down the days until she could put King's County behind her. This job was a means to an end, not a long term plan.

Yet, it didn't prevent her from rounding the bases in the broom closet at the movie theater with one of those jocks she supposedly deplored. The room was dark and dank, filled with the smell of sticky soda syrup and mops that were in desperate need of a rinsing. Her unlikely beau had shifted pallets of popcorn seeds and butter-flavored oil around to carve out a nook of sorts.

It was in this little hideaway that Rick Grimes unraveled all of Michonne's self-control.

The hands that were famous around their small town for throwing a fastball now busied themselves with working their way beneath her cotton t-shirt. Michonne felt dizzy, as though she was watching herself on one of the movie screens in the theater that they were supposed to be servicing right now.

It had started off innocently enough. Rick was the nicest of her coworkers by far, kinder than Shane, or Phillip or even Zeke. She'd never heard him engaging in their locker room talk, never leered at her, even told her about the bet to get in her pants. He was her friend, truth be told, her favorite part of working at the dollar theater in town. He'd found her crying in this very same storage closet over Mike. They'd broken up the weekend before because Mike wanted to be unattached in college. While it didn't hurt the way she thought it would, Michonne's ego had been bruised enough to shed a few bitter tears when she thought no one was looking. A hug from her friend had turned into a kiss on the head, which turned into something else entirely. It had become their daily ritual.

She gasped as his hands skimmed her stomach beneath her shirt, stopping at the edge of her bra. Rick moved his palms down, closing in around on her waist, much to her simultaneous relief and disappointment. He came back for her lips then and Michonne eagerly reciprocated. Their first time had been sloppy, wet, and a bit awkward. They'd quickly improved.

He lifted her up, setting her against one of the shelves in the room, closing the scant distance between them. If Michonne had been thinking clearly, she would have objected, straightened out her clothing, and gone back to work. In reality, she threw her hands around his shoulders to leverage herself, delighting in the pressure that was building between them.

"It could be like this all the time," Rick mumbled, his accent vibrating against her skin. It was an argument she was well-versed in by now, though his points had changed every day for the last three weeks.

"Making out in dark closets?" Michonne asked, threading her hands through his curly hair. He wasn't the only boy at school who had taken to growing out a mop-top, but she liked the way his seemed to escape his baseball cap like it was trying to bust out of the seams. It was free from the confines of a hat now, and thoroughly disheveled by her attentions.

"Being together," he corrected her, his thumbs rubbing circles into a patch of bare skin between her jeans and t-shirt.

She smiled just the slightest, hiding it by pressing a kiss to his neck, delighting in the shudder that went through him.

"Rick…" his name was half-admonishment, half breathy gasp. Rick pulled back to look at her, his blue eyes searching her face.

She'd told him that she didn't want to date, and she hadn't changed her mind. Making out wasn't dating. Michonne knew enough from listening to the girls at school. Andrea had been sure that Shane was going to make their relationship official, but when he'd been discovered with his hand up Lori's skirt behind the gym, Andrea's hopes had been dashed. Michonne required no such assurances from Rick, no matter how many times he offered it.

"I want to take you out," he redoubled his efforts, tugging at one of her long braids. "Let me take you out." He kissed her behind the ear, his eyes pleading.

"Rick, you know that—" she started her explanation again, her heart oddly heavy.

"School, your plan, I know." He cut her off, not unkindly. "We still have the summer."

"I know," she set about distracting him, running her hands down the lean muscle beneath his shirt. He smelled of Old Spice and popcorn, an endearing combination that seemed to follow her around even after their little backroom trysts. "We _are_ spending the summer together," she reminded him.

"Chonne," he choked out this abbreviation of her name as she fumbled with the belt buckle of his khakis.

She silenced him with a kiss, tasting the pop rocks he'd shared with her just minutes before on their lunch break.

Rick's hands closed around her wrist, halting her motions. He returned them to their place around his shoulders before reaching for the clasp of Michonne's jeans.

"Tell me if I should stop," he whispered in her ear. His fingers brushed the elastic of her underwear. Her body seemed to catch fire.

Michonne didn't tell him to stop.

A few minutes later, he lowered her back to the ground, slipping his hand out of the front of her pants. Michonne clung to him, still shaky, trying to regain her breath. He helped her right her clothing and straighten out her hair before pulling back, pinning her with that cobalt gaze that was starting to do things to her.

"That was amazing," she complimented, desperate to break the sudden tension. Michonne was trembling, disoriented in the wake of the space that spread between them.

He nodded distractedly, licking his kiss-swollen lips. "We should get back to work," he opened the door, peeking out to be sure the cost was clear. "You first," his smile didn't seem to reach his eyes.

She hurried out, confused at his abrupt change in tone, though she was determined not to show him. She rinsed her face in the bathroom sink, willing herself to calm down. This was just for the summer. There was no need to bring feelings into it.

Michonne forgot her own mantra when she emerged to see Rick leaning across the concessions counter, talking to Jessie Anderson. Something he said set the blonde laughing. Michonne felt heat flood her body, a heady combination of anger and hurt. She walked stiffly toward the pair, allowing her long braids to swing down her back. Her body was still humming from Rick's attentions, but she seemingly had no effect on him. He was smiling at Jessie as he handed her a coke. The blonde flipped her permed hair prettily, batting mascara-coated eyelashes.

"Do they ever let you watch movies on shift?" Jessie questioned, clutching her diet soda.

"On breaks," Rick shrugged, handing her a straw. Jessie reached forward, touching his hand.

"Want to take a break now?" she baited.

Behind them, Michonne choked back her rage. Rick released the straw, not turning to look at her.

"I just took a break," he told Jessie, sliding her change across the counter at her.

"Maybe next time," the blonde was clearly disappointed but unwilling to give up.

"Maybe," Rick commented diplomatically. "Enjoy the show."

In a swish of hair, Jessie was gone, but Michonne stood there, shaking. Desperate to make herself busy, Michonne powered up the popcorn maker, shoving the seeds in with a vengeance. Rick looked at her for a moment, but she ignored him, turning to the customers gathering in front of her with a forced smile.

Rick worked silently beside her, chipping away at the long line in front of them until the lobby gradually emptied out. Two grade school students were playing at a pinball machine in the corner. Michonne calculated that they were far enough away.

"What," she started, her voice dangerously low, "the hell was that?"

Rick's eyebrows jumped. He turned toward her, confusion clear on his face. "What are you talking about?" his southern accent thickened. Michonne ignored it, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"You kiss me in the closet and then you come out here and—" she seethed, her voice cracking.

"And what, Michonne?" Rick was heating up now, his temper creeping out to meet hers. She'd seen his anger before during baseball games, knew that it didn't take much to fire him up. He'd never snapped at her before though.

"And flirt with the first girl that you see!" she snapped. The boys in the corner turned around at once to look at her, eyes wide and round. Rick waved them over, handing them a free soda before turning back to Michonne. His neck was going red.

"Closet. Now." His voice was deeper than she'd ever heard it. He marched her into their space, tugging the door shut with a snap. Michonne spun on him, inches away from his face. Rick stared down at her, his breathing heavy. "You can't tell me you don't want to date me one second, and then be pissed when other girls want to talk to me," he began.

"You can't have your hands down my pants one minute, and flirt with someone else the next!" Michonne felt dangerously close to crying.

"I wasn't flirting," Rick countered, "I don't even like Jessie."

"She likes you," the tears came now, running hot down her cheeks. Michonne brushed them away, embarrassed.

Rick watched her, his expression softening. "So?"

" _So_?" Michonne asked, incredulous.

"Yeah," Rick's head tilted as he studied her. "So what? What do you want me to do, Michonne?"

Michonne paused, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"You know what I want," Rick said, finally reaching for her. He brushed her face. "What do you want?"

Michonne stared back at him, unable to speak. Rick dropped his hands, instead turning for the door. Wordlessly, he returned to the lobby.

She sat in silence on the cardboard boxes in the dark, pondering her plan. This summer was to be a rung in the ladder on the way to success. She wasn't supposed to let a boy derail her. Mike hadn't derailed her, even after their breakup.

Rick wasn't Mike.

Rick was unplanned, unexpected. He was also sweet, and handsome, and smarter than she gave him credit for. And while she had no idea how he fit into her plans for the future, she knew one thing was sure right now: She wanted him.

She continued this train of thought as she finished her shift, trying to ignore the way Rick was ignoring her. Shane and Zeke didn't notice anything when they showed up to take over. Rick talked with them for a moment, laughing like nothing was amiss. Michonne seized her purse and bid her time, waiting for her opening.

When Jessie emerged from her theater and beelined for Rick again, Michonne made up her mind. She stepped between them, surprising even herself.

"Rick," Michonne ignored Shane's smirk, Zeke's raised brow, and Jessie's scoff.

"'Chonne," Rick's eyes moved to hers.

"Can I take you to dinner?" she tilted her chin up, even as her coworkers began to chatter excitedly.

Rick grinned at her, ignoring the whoops and hollers of his friends. "I'll drive," he brandished his keys and reached for her hand, undaunted by the audience around them. Jessie gaped at them.

Michonne took it, strolling out the door beside him without looking back.

"Where did you want to go?" he asked her, tugging her under his arm.

"Let's just see where we end up," she told him, kissing him lightly before climbing into his truck.

"Sounds like a plan," Rick agreed, still smiling.


	44. Karaoke Night

**A/N: Hey all! It's been a while. I've been busy working on my web series, but I penned this little ficlet on my lunch break at the suggestion of my sister and cranesinthesky**

 **I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

It was somewhere between _Take on Me_ and _I Wanna Dance With Somebody_ that Rick realized he had fallen in love.

It came upon him suddenly, an inevitable consequence of his partnership with the woman beside him, as simple as lying down and falling asleep. That he realized it _here_ , in a sticky karaoke bar, packed in among close friends and complete strangers, struck him as odd at first. Then again, how could he not love his tone-deaf girlfriend, grinning brightly as she warbled out her best imitation of Whitney Houston?

The crowd was in a tipsy frenzy, shouting their appreciation at Michonne as she squeaked her way through the high notes with all of the finesse of a screeching seagull. Rick wouldn't have thought it possible to get her up onstage back home. The presence of free-flowing booze and the beach town that was the setting of a long-awaited vacation had loosened her lips.

To his left, Glenn scrunched his face in pain as Michonne powered through the conclusion of the song. The rest of their group seemed to be looking at her with some mixture of horror, amusement, and admiration.

"I guess we found the one thing she's not good at," the young man smirked amusedly at his best friend.

Rick had to disagree. There was a flush to her dark skin, a twinkle in her eye, a breathless exhilaration that emanated as she danced (much better than she sang) across the stage to conclude her impromptu act. She was magnificent.

It didn't stop him from teasing her as she joined him again.

"How was it?" Michonne asked brightly, her speech colored by the three glasses of wine she'd indulged in.

"I wouldn't quit your day job, hon," Rick fired back good-naturedly.

She stuck her tongue out at him as their friends laughed. Glenn already began queuing up the next selection. "Well," she challenged, a familiar expression forming on her pretty face, "Show me up then, cowboy."

"My pleasure," he eagerly accepted, kissing her for good measure. He could still taste her as he leapt to the stage in three bounds, seizing the mic with finesse.

"You don't want to pick a song?" her eyes widened as she looked up at him.

Rick winked confidently. "Glenn?" he prompted his oldest friend.

With a flourish, Glenn hit the button, pumping out their tried and true karaoke jam.

"Oh no…" Michonne groaned in disbelief, laughing already. Glenn just grinned.

"Show 'em how it's done!" he shouted up at Rick.

Happily, he obliged. He didn't need the lyrics for this one; in fact, he'd had them memorized since high school. Which was convenient, considering he wanted his full attention on the woman watching him and giggling just below.

"I could stay awake, just to hear you breathing…" Rick belted, smirking as Michonne howled with laughter at his Steven Tyler impression. The crowd also approved, quickly getting into the spirit, with couples all over launching into their own private version of this 90s love power ballad. Glenn took the liberty of serenading Maggie beside him, singing in a harmony with Rick that they'd perfected in the 10th grade.

All the while, Michonne smiled up at him while Rick smiled back.

 _Don't Stop Believin'_ kicked in nearly the second Rick was finished. He happily handed the mic over to Daryl before hopping down and taking his place beside Michonne.

"Not bad," she admitted, reaching for his hand.

Rick pulled her under his arm. "Easy when I've got a pretty girl to sing to," he told her, delighting in her scoff.

"Oh yeah?" she poked him, pleased even as she tried to hide it.

"Yeah," he kissed her, taking advantage of the distracted crowd. Michonne eagerly reciprocated.

She pulled back, her forehead lingering against his. The occupants of the bar danced around them, but the pair were oblivious.

"I think I love you, Rick," she whispered against his lips, suddenly serious. He took her in, her dark eyes just inches away from his, his heart thumping wildly in a rhythm he knew matched hers.

He pulled her tighter into his embrace. "You know, I was going to say the same thing to you," he told her with a laugh.

She smirked. "Beat you to it," she teased.

"I love you, Michonne," he answered, "Even though you can't sing worth a damn."

With a bark of laughter and a scoff, she pushed him. Rick seized the opportunity to loop her arms around his neck.

"Want to sing another?" Daryl called down at him, oblivious.

Rick barely looked up. "Nah, I'm good right here." Michonne flushed.

As the music played, he kissed her again.


	45. Coconut Oil

**A/N: I'm trying to take time again to write for pleasure. I hope you enjoy this little ficlet from the Prison days.**

* * *

"Rick, what's this?"

He'd anticipated the question for hours, but his heart still rattled when he heard her. Her voice, so full of surprise, rang down the concrete halls of the corridor towards him. It was all he could do to not run towards her.

He came upon her cell at last, on lazy, measured steps. She was cradling the container in her hand, inspecting it as though it was the Holy Grail.

"Rick?" she asked again, her voice lilting with obvious pleasure.

He grinned at her, doing his best to keep the blush out of his cheeks. "Saw it. Thought it might be something you could use."

In fact, he had searched for it, some vague memory ringing in his head that drove him down the aisles of a picked over grocery store.

"It's full," she marveled, holding the container to her chest. Rick's eyes followed it.

"Well, you got a lot of hair," he drew his gaze back up, gesturing to the locs hanging freely over her shoulders. "And I figure we're even now."

She grinned wickedly. Rick felt as though someone had kicked him straight in the gut. "For the razor?"

He swallowed thickly. "Yup."

"You trying to say something's wrong with my hair, old man?" she questioned, leaning her weight on one leg.

He did flush this time, despite his best efforts. "Nah…it's beautiful. I just thought—"

He broke off when she began to laugh. "Thank you, Rick," her tone changed, a sweet note to it that he'd never heard before.

As swiftly as she swung her sword in combat, she leaned forward, planting a kiss on his beard-covered cheek. In another moment, the jar was open, the oil being warmed between elegant brown fingers as she applied it to her hair, twisting each loc gingerly.

"You're welcome, Michonne," he managed to croak out.

He left her with her present, his cheek burning, the scent of coconut lingering on the air.

Next time he brought her a gift, he'd have to shave first.


	46. RichonneJustDesserts AU: Activists

**A/N: Hi all! This is a little fic written for Richonne Just Dessert's AU Challenge. My prompt was "Activists". I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"Officer Grimes."

She was standing on his front porch, wrapped in a crimson pea coat, shivering in the cold of the winter evening. He recognized her immediately, from her elaborate locs beneath her knit beanie to the dark brown of her lipstick.

"Mrs. Lewis," Rick's throat was suddenly tight, his chest pounding. "How did you find me?"

"You aren't hard to find," her voice was soft, gentler than he deserved. Her eyes locked on his face as though she was searching it, trying to see inside of him.

Alarm bells went off in his mind at her statement, but he pushed them to the back of his mind. "Did you want to come in?" he asked, reverting to his tried and true southern hospitalities. He fully expected her to decline, to speak her piece and leave him to his demons.

"Yes, please," she took a shaky step forward, then a second. Rick nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to let her in. He glanced up the street one last time, cataloguing. His neighborhood was quiet, safe, boring even, just like always. The thought did little to comfort him.

"Mrs. Lewis—" he began again, locking the door and pulling it firmly shut.

"Not missus." She corrected him. "Not anymore."

Guilt punched him like a fist in the stomach. He remembered her husband, the fear in his eyes, his body limp and slouched. There was not a night that it did not haunt him. "Ms…" he tried again.

"Michonne," she fiddled nervously with the buttons of her coat. "Just Michonne is fine."

"Michonne," he tried the name, the syllables foreign to his tongue. It was a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, a name he felt he had no right to. "How can I help you?" he asked. He busied himself by assisting her with her coat, grateful for the distraction. She relinquished it to him wearily, her gaze never straying far from his face.

They stared at one another in his foyer, the sound of the heater kicking on the only thing breaking the silence.

"I'm glad you asked," she said at long last. She tilted her head, reaching for her hat. Her locs tumbled free, distracting him for just a second. "You were there in my husband's last moments."

"I was," he sucked his teeth, his nerves jumping. "Michonne, I'm sorry—"

She cut him off, one of her elegant hands coming up palm first, as though she were directing traffic. "I don't need your apologies," she said firmly. "I need your help."

His breath stuttered. "My help?"

"You saw everything. I know they have you on administrative leave. You and your partner, Officer Blake." For the first time, the hint of anger colored her tone.

"He ain't my partner," Rick clipped out, his anger nearly matching her own. "Only reason I was there was I was afraid he'd—" he caught himself, abruptly snapping his mouth shut. He was on thin ice already. He hadn't missed the veiled threats by his superiors as he gave his statement. He'd been sent home like a naughty child with one mandate: Keep his mouth shut. It burned Rick up to his core.

"You were afraid he'd do what he did," Michonne said, color brightening her cheeks.

"I couldn't stop him," Rick lamented. Lord knows, he tried. He'd told the Captain the kind of man Phillip Blake was months ago. No one had listened. Now the chickens had come home to roost. Now a man was dead.

"You can," Michonne stepped toward him, her chin tilted up as she regarded him. "Stop him from doing it again. Help me get justice for Mike."

"How?" he willed himself to stay still, to not wilt beneath her judgement.

"Testify," the word left her lips on a whisper.

The thought had occurred to him. Breaking the blue shield was not a joke, least of all in a backwoods town in Georgia. He had Carl to consider. "It might not do anything," he whispered back, thinking of his son.

Then again, Mike had a little boy too. Rick saw his picture on the news. He couldn't have been much younger than Carl, this stoic son who stood so bravely beside podiums at press conferences. For all of his courage, he was still a child, a child that only had a mother now, a mother who had journeyed into the town where her husband was killed just to show up at his door.

"It will," she sounded confident, her voice steady, even as she trembled. "I have a plan, but I need help." She swallowed, tears coming to her eyes. "Officer Grimes, I need help." The dam broke at once, her façade crumbling as her small body shook with the effort. Rick felt the last of his resistance crumble.

He was hugging her before he realized what was happening. Her tears saturated the fabric of his shirt. She clung to him tightly. Rick had a fleeting moment of the oddity of the situation, of a police officer comforting the widow of a man killed by another officer in his precinct. The whole situation was senseless.

"Please," she squeaked the request into his chest. "Andre and I need your help."

Rick pulled back just the slightest, fixing her with his gaze. She stared back, eyes wet and swollen. His heart broke all over again.

"I'll testify," he promised her. "For your husband and your son. And for you." He owed the man he couldn't save. He'd do his damnedest to save his wife.

He didn't deserve her smile, but he reveled in it nonetheless, his heart lightening just the slightest for the first time in weeks.

"We can do this," she told him. "Together." She held out her hand, palm forward.

"Together," he agreed, shaking it.


	47. Killing Me Softly

**A/N: A shoutout to ChinaPia for suggesting this prompt based on their favorite song, and the new version of A Star is Born for inspiring me to give country music a shot. Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Cowboys boots. As far as the eye could see, she was met with the sight of cowboy boots. And not just boots, no. This was the land of denim and leather. From pants, to hats, to shirts, there was some dress code that she clearly had not been clued in on. Michonne stood in the bar in her bright yellow sundress, glaring murderously at her friends.

"Did I mention how many times I hate country music?" Michonne spoke through gritted teeth, attempting to maintain her smile as music blared through the speakers of this bar.

"About a half hundred times," Carol smiled serenely at her. "It wouldn't kill you to get out of your comfort zone."

"It might," Michonne did not hesitate to answer. So help her God, if she saw so much as one confederate flag embellished _anything_ , she was out of here.

"Relax," Maggie instructed, adjusting her own straw cowboy hat. "I think there's something here that you're going to like." She smiled like she was keeping some giant secret.

"Oh yeah?" Michonne looked around. She saw a wooden bar, peanut shells on the floor, and even more cowboy boots tapping the ground in unison as the patrons finished a line dance. "What's that?" she challenged her friend.

Maggie and Carol exchanged knowing looks. "Let's just find a seat," Maggie said. "The show is about to start."

The three woman crowded to the front of the bar. Michonne did her best to blend in, despite her discomfort. Someone had set up a stage of sorts, complete with a mic and a stool. Michonne glanced at it curiously.

"Is it open mic night?" she asked. The only thing worse than suffering through her least favorite genre of music was the prospect of having to listen to amateurs sing it.

"Not exactly," Carol pressed a can of beer into Michonne's hand.

"Then what?" Michonne took a sip, hiding her grimace. She had not drank Budweiser since college and until tonight, never planned to again. She took another gulp, building up the liquid strength to endure this girls' night.

"Patience," Maggie chided.

Michonne grumbled, but kept her protests mostly silent. So far, she had yet to see anything in this whole establishment that might peak her interest.

Then the singer took the stage.

He was wearing cowboy boots just like the rest of them. He hadn't skimped on the denim either, from his faded Levi's to his long sleeve shirt. He even had the hat, a dark brown leather one that covered his face. Michonne studied him, noting the way the end of his hair curled beneath it, the salt and pepper quality to his beard.

When he removed the hat entirely, she felt the air get sucked from her lungs.

"Who is that?" she asked Carol and Maggie lowly, her eyes still on the stage.

"He's the reason we're here," Maggie answered cheekily.

"Hey," a voice, deep and gravely, rang into the mic as the singer sat atop the stool, his guitar in his lap. "It's good to see y'all tonight," he addressed the crowd. "I thought I'd switch it up on you a little, play something new. Well, not exactly new." He grinned, a lazy, lopsided smile that had Michonne clutching her beer can a little tighter. "I hope y'all like the classics," he laughed and the audience laughed with him. "My mama used to sing this to me when I was little. I know some of you prefer the Fugees version, but I'm old school."

With another chuckle, he lifted his guitar, strumming it a few times experimentally.

"I see some new faces out there," he looked out at them. Several women began to giggle. Michonne felt annoyance at once. Then he turned clear blue eyes towards her. "I see one new face in particular," his smile widened. Michonne nearly crushed her beer can. "I hope you like the performance, ma'am," he tilted his head at her, looking like he could read her mind. Then, without further preamble, he began to play.

"You all right?" Carol whispered knowingly in Michonne's ear.

"Uh-huh," Michonne nodded absently. Her eyes were on the stage, where the singer was doing a deep, throaty rendition of Roberta Flack.

"He's good, ain't he?" Maggie asked.

Michonne was forced to concede that he was. And when he looked at her again, holding eye contact as he finished the last chorus, she was forced to admit that maybe, just maybe, there was something she liked about this country music bar.

"What's his name?" Michonne asked her friends as the man onstage ended his set, promising to return later into the night after a few beers.

"Goes by Rick," Carol answered. "Never got a last name."

Michonne spun at once, hailing the bartender. She secured two more cans of Bud before straightening her skirt.

"Where are you going?" Maggie called after Michonne, watching as she seized the beer.

"To get his last name," Michonne said back, flashing a wicked smile of her own.

She waded through the crowd, pushing past gaggles of simpering women until she came face to face with the singer. She paused in front of him, enjoying his open appraisal of her.

"It's not every man that can sing Roberta," Michonne began. She lifted one of the beers, offering it to him.

"It ain't every woman who buys a man a drink," he fired back with a chuckle.

"Guess we're a pair then," Michonne raised her can. He clinked his against hers with a flourish.

"I'm hoping so," he took a pull, eyes never leaving hers. "Did you like the show, Miss?" he asked.

"Michonne Jackson," she answered. "And I'm not much for country music, but I liked your singing."

"Well cheers to that," he grinned again. "I'm Rick Grimes."

"Well, Rick Grimes," Michonne took a step closer to him. "What else are you going to sing tonight?"

"I'm open to suggestions," he told her, stepping closer himself. "Got any?" he asked.

Michonne smiled. "Maybe one or two," she told him.

"I can't wait to hear them," Rick leaned towards her.

"Well?" Carol asked expectantly many hours later as they stumbled from the bar on tired legs. "Did you find something you liked?"

Michonne's phone buzzed from inside her purse. She chanced a glance at it, beaming when she spotted Rick's number.

" _Maybe I can sing for you sometime soon. Private show?_ " his text blinked up at her.

"Maybe," Michonne smiled, ignoring her friends' laughter.


	48. Killing Me Softly 2

**A/N: I liked the idea of Country Rick so much, I wrote a part 2. Thank msdoomandgloom for the inspiration here.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Michonne stubbornly refused to wear the boots. Call it hubris, but she had no intention of donning cowboy shoes, no matter how practical they might be for the situation or how hot her date was. Instead, she was wearing her old Nike hi-tops, ankle deep in dust and grass, her dark skin covered in perspiration, surrounded by Daisy Duke Denim shorts, crop tops, flannel in every conceivable color, and straw cowboy hats. She was also absurdly happy.

Go figure.

"Having fun?" Rick adjusted his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer still. The dark denim of his shirt felt pleasant against her bare skin. She wasn't sure how he was managing to pull off long sleeves in this muggy weather, but he looked at ease.

"I am," she answered, smiling earnestly at him. She had to tilt her head up to see his face from beneath the bill of her borrowed red baseball cap. Rick grinned down at her from beneath the rim of his own faded brown cowboy hat.

"Might make you a country fan after all," he mused, pushing up his mirrored aviators so he could see her face fully.

"I wouldn't say that," Michonne cautioned. The country artists had been tolerable, but it was the blue musicians at this festival that had captured her attention. She wasn't trading in her jeans and tennis shoes or her colorful skirts anytime soon. Still… she had to admit, she didn't hate it.

"Fair enough," he reached for her hand, pulling it up to brush it against his lips. Michonne shivered at the contact. Rick had kissed her now, twice by her count, once after each date. Both were burned into her memory, the smell of his cologne, the crispness of his shirt collar against her fingers, the way the curls at the nape of his neck tickled her hand, the taste of his mouth as he took her apart with his chaste affections. Their first two dates had been a dream of held open doors and pulled out chairs, of hand holding and gentle touches, and laughing until her stomach hurt. She appreciated his respectful nature, Lord knows she did.

But this man was going to kill her if he didn't kiss her properly and soon.

Rick made matters worse when he maneuvered her in front of him, wrapping himself around her and dipping his chin to her shoulder. He began to sing along with the performer on stage, a tune Michonne had never heard before. The deep rumble of Rick's voice soon drew her full attention. Perhaps he was singing along absentmindedly, but there was no way he didn't notice the way his lips were brushing her ear, sending vibrations rolling through her.

"Are you cold?" Rick asked, detecting her goosebumps. His voice alluded to his concern, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.

Bastard.

"I'm fine," Michonne smiled innocently. She looped her arm backwards around his neck, pulling herself closer. Rick's grip on her waist tightened. Michonne pointedly fixed her attention back on the stage, swaying her hips gently to the music. Someone onstage produced a banjo. The crowd was going wild. She could not care less about a banjo solo, but any excuse to lean closer into Rick seemed worth it at this point. She craned up on her toes to see the stage, pushing her hips further back against him. His grip on her tightened until she was sure he was moments away from leaving fingerprint marks. He began to rock with her, falling seamlessly into her rhythm. His fingers found a patch of exposed skin where Michonne's shirt had ridden up. He traced it, pressing patterns into her as he sang.

Michonne stayed standing up by sheer force of will. Her legs seemed to be going weak as her body threatened to burst into flames. She scarcely noticed the weather changing until the downpour was upon them. People scattered at once when the deluge started, like roaches when the light turns on. Michonne leaned closer to Rick as the crowd surged around them, giggling when he wrapped her tighter in his arms.

"You think they'd never seen a little water before," he chuckled. Rivulets were running down his hat, saturating his clothing. Michonne, despite Rick's best efforts, was soaked within minutes, the cotton of her tank top clinging to her like a second skin. Rick's amusement died when he looked down at her, something else entirely flickering behind his baby blues. Behind them, the concert came to an abrupt end as the rain poured down.

"You ok?" Michonne could barely refrain from teasing. Truth be told, that stare of his was doing something to her. He was clearly struggling to keep his eyes on her face. His hands ran up her bare arms, now wet, and she shivered again.

Rick released her so suddenly that she nearly tumbled to the ground. Her eyes zeroed in on his hands, the long, deft fingers undoing each button on his shirt. For one absurd moment, Michonne wondered whether they were going to cross that next line right out here in public. Her sanity returned when he removed the shirt, draping it over her shoulders instead. Instantly, she was surrounded by the clean scent of his cologne.

"Let's get you out of the rain," he grinned at her, clutching her hand to lead her through the crowd.

Michonne followed, thankful for the chivalrous gesture. Unfortunately, now she had another problem. Rick had only been wearing a white t-shirt beneath his button down. It was now practically see-through, highlighting a physique she had only previously suspected was there. This, coupled with a pair of low-slung jeans hell bent on molding to his legs, had her mouth running dry. She sped up her steps, closing the distance between them until she could loop her fingers in his belt buckle, still giggling as they rushed to his truck.

The red pickup was parked in a sea of other vehicles, each set on tearing out as quickly as possible.

"We'll be stuck in traffic," Michonne lamented, watching Rick fiddle with his keys.

He stole a glance at her, instead opening the back door of his truck. "Let's wait it out."

He helped her inside, shutting the door behind him. The truck was warm, almost muggy, but the sound of the rain beating against the roof was soothing. Michonne settled against her date, laughing as he tossed his hat unceremoniously into the front seat. Michonne followed suit, tugging the tie out of her hair, releasing her long locs. She began working his shirt over her shoulders. Rick's eyes followed the motion.

"What?" she asked playfully. The cab of his truck was suddenly unbearably warm. "It's hot in here," she told him.

In answer, Rick surged forward, chivalry apparently abandoned as he pressed her into the backseat. He swallowed her gasp, catching her lips with his own. Michonne immediately granted him entrance, clinging to him as he sucked at her, something almost like a growl escaping him.

"Shit, Michonne…" the sound of her name leaving him undid her completely.

Her hands grasped at the hem of his soaking wet t shirt, peeling it over his head. He assisted her, disengaging just long enough to toss it over his damp curls and onto the floor. Her hands went immediately to his belt.

"Thought you were going to make me wait forever," she bit down gently on his shoulder, rolling her hips into his eager hands. His smoothed his palms beneath her tank top, all but ripping it from her.

"I was trying to be polite," he laughed into her chest, wasting no time in laving his tongue over her.

"It's not polite to make a lady wait," Michonne managed to tease through clenched teeth. With finesse, he unbuttoned her jeans and worked the zipper down.

"I better make it up to you then," he grinned salaciously.

Michonne tossed her head back into the fabric of the seats, all thoughts of words forgotten as his fingers went to work. Shamelessly, she writhed against him, clutching his corded muscles, pulling his mouth down to her again. The windows of the truck steamed as they kissed frantically, the small space filled with breathless moans and gasps.

Rick had just managed to get her wet jeans completely off when they heard the knock on the window.

Both of their heads snapped up at the sound. Michonne was lying flat on her back, her legs clenched around Rick's narrow waist. Rick was flushed, his hair an absolute mess.

"Shit," he cursed. He reached down hastily for his shirt, covering Michonne with it before reaching over to roll the window down a crack.

A surly, swarthy security guard was staring back at them, amused.

"Rick," he began, clearly holding in a laugh, "C'mon man."

"My bad," Rick sat up straighter, looking relieved. He chuckled. "We got carried away."

The security guard's eyes flicked to Michonne. He laughed out right. "Can't say I blame you," he nodded at Michonne by way of greeting. "But you gotta go home. My girl's waiting for me too. I ain't trying to be here all night."

"All right, Shane," Rick was already rolling the window up. "I'll see you."

"See you man," the guard retreated.

Rick glanced down at Michonne, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, 'Chonne. He's an old friend—" he began.

Michonne interrupted, laughter bubbling from her lips. He soon joined her, until both of them were in stitches. He leaned down to kiss her affectionately. Michonne wrapped him in her arms. From outside the car, the voice came again.

"Seriously, Grimes! Go home!" the security guard yelled.

"All right," Rick sat up and shouted back, yanking his jeans back up. He helped Michonne squeeze between the seats and into the passenger's side before climbing behind the steering wheel. "Want me to take you home?" he asked her, brushing a stray loc from her face.

"Let's go to your place," Michonne leaned over, kissing him again, quickly this time.

He smiled, starting the car. "My place it is."


	49. Killing Me Softly Conclusion

**A/N: Unfortunately, this is the end of Country music Rick (at least for now). Might I humbly suggest that you listen to Johnny Swim's _First Try_ as you read this? You may recognize a lyric or two...**

 **Thank you for the prompt, the response, and the inspiration to keep writing. Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

"What's this?" Rick asked curiously, squinting at the slanted writing on the notebook page.

The large, leather bound book lay in front of him, the way it often did at night, a hodgepodge of scrawled lyrics and key changes, of half-formed bridges and choruses. Rick scribbled away in this notebook at all hours of the day, whipping it out as inspiration struck. Michonne had found it odd at one time, that a person could live their life to a soundtrack of their own making. Now she could not sleep without him strumming away, his calloused fingers plucking at the strings as he hummed. He painted an enticing picture, his back up against the headboard, his hat on the bedside table, wearing only his favorite jeans, his head bowed over his trusty songbook.

"What's what?" Michonne played dumb, scarcely glancing up. He was not the only one with nightly rituals. She worked to the score he provided, writing case depositions, journal entries, letters to friends, and the occasional poem as they came to her mind. It was habit now, as well worn as Rick's Levi's, a ritual Michonne had no intention of ever giving up.

Rick smirked at her, pushing his book across the sheets towards her. "You trying to say I don't recognize my wife's own handwriting?"

"Your wife?" she questioned, laughing lightly. "You popped the question about a week ago." It had been a hell of a proposal. Although she knew they would cross this bridge at some point, she hadn't expected him to end his set that night by dropping on one knee.

He shrugged, unconcerned with the semantics. "We're just making it official," Rick told her, "but you've been my wife for a while now." He began to strum, looking all too smug as she flushed at his words.

"Really?" she shook her head, attempting and failing miserably to disguise her smile. "Why'd it take you so long to make it official then?" A year wasn't that long, not really, but it felt as though she'd known him her whole life.

He laughed outright, still playing his chords. "Had to do things in the right order," Rick told her.

"And what order is that?" Michonne set her own work aside, closing her laptop and giving her fiancé her full attention.

"Dating, meeting the friends, then the family," he recounted. "Proposing," he shifted the tune, launching into the romantic melody that had accompanied the aforementioned proposal. "But I always knew," he assured her.

"Did you?" Michonne did not bother hiding her smile now.

"Mmm hmm," he murmured. His eyes looked back at the open page lying between them. "Looks like you might've known too."

"Maybe so," Michonne followed his gaze, studying her own neat handwriting.

"How do you hear it?" Rick asked her, staring at her eagerly.

Michonne shrugged. "I'm not sure. I'm not a songwriter." Her cheeks began to burn with embarrassment at her impulsive addition to Rick's notebook. She'd penciled in the lovey-dovey sentiment earlier that morning as she left for work, wanting to leave him a surprise.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Michonne, you're full of music, but you don't know it." He glanced back at the book, setting his guitar aside. "C'mere," he suggested, reaching for her instead.

"It's meant to be a love letter," Michonne clarified, even as she allowed herself to be dragged into his lap. Rick settled her between his legs, his chest pressing firmly into her back. He reached for his guitar again, settling it in front of him.

"I'm not great at love letters," he admitted, bringing his arms in front of her and strumming again. "But singing I know." He began his melody again, the simple tune she'd first heard a week back. Michonne relaxed against him, enjoying the rumbling in his chest as he began to sing her words. " _Before you ever wrote a song, before I ever sang along, I knew you were only, the only one I need…_ "

Michonne began to giggle, embarrassed to hear her words out loud. "So corny," she said. "It sounded better in my head."

"I think it sounds damn good," Rick kissed her cheek. "Sounds like a duet to me…" he nudged her gently with his shoulder.

"Rick…" she protested, familiar with this game. "I can't sing." It was an old argument now, one that she never won (and if she was being honest with herself, never really wanted to win).

"Says you," he teased. "I've got a different opinion." He continued on, adding his tune to her love letter. " _Before we swayed….before that dance, girl…._ "

Michonne gave in as he jostled her, giggling. " _I knew you would be my one and only world_." She contributed, wincing at her own voice as she tripped along to his refrain.

Rick looked delighted, "See?" he questioned, stealing a kiss, "You're a natural." He took her hand, pausing only to smooth his finger over the new band on her left hand ring finger before placing them on the strings of the guitar. His own palms covered hers, guiding her. The melody wasn't as smooth as when he played it alone, but Rick did not seem to mind.

"Still trying to make me a country music fan," she chided jokingly, her heart pounding wildly. She wondered vaguely if his touch would ever not leave her breathless.

"Nah," Rick shook his head, bringing his chin to her shoulder. "Just trying to make music together."

"Corny!" Michonne laughed, even as her affection for him swelled at the sentiment.

"Says the woman who wrote this," he chuckled, gesturing to his notebook. " _So you can give me this whole life, with you standing right by my side_ …"

Rick didn't need to goad her into finishing the last line. Michonne moved her fingers on her own accord, plucking out the few chords she knew. " _Because I know I got what I need and I won't let it go_ ," she finished, her cheeks burning at the expression on Rick's face.

He kissed her properly, deeply, as was his habit, as though it was always the first time in the back of his truck a year ago.

"You got any more song left in you?" he questioned against her lips.

Michonne smiled, "I might have a few lyrics left to write," she told him.

"Tell me," he requested, moving his hands back to his instrument.

Michonne relaxed against her soon-to-be official husband, enjoying the sound of his playing. "All right," she acquiesced, delighting in his smile.

By the time their wedding came around, Michonne wasn't even nervous to sing it at their reception, much to the astonishment of her friends.

"I thought you didn't like country music," Maggie teased, grinning in her bridesmaid dress.

"She doesn't" Carol came to her defense. "But she loves that country boy."

The two women succumbed to peals of laughter. Michonne didn't mind.

There was no point in denying the truth anyway.


	50. Are You Afraid of the Dark

**A/N: Written for the Richonne Just Desserts Halloween challenge. My prompt was "Where did _ go?"**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Where did Glenn go?" Morgan asked the question suddenly, blinking up at the group from his place on the other side of the bonfire. The flames threw shadows across his face, transforming his normally cheerful countenance into an almost haunting visage.

"I'll go look for him," Rick volunteered almost immediately, swallowing the last of his lukewarm beer. The ice in the cooler had long since melted, leaving all of their food a tepid temperature that turned Michonne's stomach. The men insisted that a cold night in the forest would remedy the situation. Michonne, for her part, took it as yet another sign that this trip was a terrible idea.

"Richard Grimes," Michonne veiled her concern poorly, tugging on Rick's arm. She nearly fell as she scrambled up to stand with him. Her legs and butt had gone numb what felt like hours ago. "You are not going into the woods alone."

"You forget I grew up here?" Rick asked her, all tipsy amusement. Michonne did not share his mirth.

"It's not safe," she insisted. For hours, her sharp eyes had followed the shadows in the trees around them, dipping in and out, as though something was surrounding them. Rick insisted it was a trick of the light, sitting close to her to comfort her. She wasn't about to let him leave her now.

"All right," he still seemed amused, but he humored her, reaching for her hand. She clutched it, grateful for the warmth. "Come with me then."

"In there?" she asked, eyes back on the foreboding trees. She always had harbored a tiny, albeit irrational, fear of the dark. The current setting was doing nothing to assuage those reservations.

"In there," Rick confirmed, already dragging Michonne off. The pair ignored Morgan's little chuckle, Maggie's teasing, and Rosita's imitation of a werewolf howl. Reluctantly, Michonne followed Rick, dragging her feet the whole way. "We'll be right back, guys," Rick called over his shoulder.

Michonne dug her nails into his hand. "Rick," she bemoaned, "You aren't supposed to say things like that."

"Like what?" he chuckled again, navigating effortlessly through the trees with only a flashlight.

"That's horror movie 101. _Never_ say, 'I'll be right back'," Michonne insisted. The forest was suddenly full of sounds, insects chirping, and things rooting around in the underbrush. She pressed herself closer to him.

"Oh yeah?" Rick slung his arm around her. "Tell me, city girl, what other rules am I breaking?"

Michonne huffed, unable to find the levity in the situation. "You're never supposed to drink," she told him, "so you're already losing there." Rick laughed. "And you're never supposed to split up," she continued. "or have sex…"

"Well damn," Rick guffawed. "Guess we're going to be breaking that rule soon too."

"Rick!" she admonished. "I'm serious. We're college kids in the forest."

"Graduate students," he reminded her. "And we're married—"

"-You're already the cocky drunk jock—" she continued as though she hadn't heard him.

"Cocky?" Rick's laughter escalated.

"And I'm a black girl!" Michonne finished. "We don't do well in horror situations."

"Well, you're also the hot girl," Rick paused. "Doesn't the hot girl always make it?"

Michonne flushed, momentarily pleased. Her mind whipped back to the task at hand. "Not always," she said. "Half those movies last week, the hottest girl died."

"Is that right? Then you're really shit out of luck, baby," he paused, looking at her. His amusement died somewhat when he registered the look on her face. "Damn, Chonne," he pulled her closer. "Are you actually scared?"

She nodded miserably. "I wanted to go to Disney World for fall break," she lamented. Nothing was terrifying at Disney World, and the beds were infinitely more comfortable.

Rick wrapped her in his arms. His scent was at once familiar and comforting, despite the smell of smoke that clung to his worn leather jacket. It was almost enough to make her forget that she was out here in East Jesus nowhere, and her friend may or may not have been missing.

"Next year, we'll skip the Halloween horror marathon," Rick promised her, kissing her on the cheek.

"And the camping trip too?" she asked hopefully. "Disney World instead?"

"If we start saving now, maybe." Rick chuckled. "But I still think there's a few things I could get you to like about camping."

"Like what?" she challenged curiously.

In answer, Rick lifted her, pushing her back against the nearest tree. She squealed in surprise, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He immediately took advantage, making his intent known as he flicked the flashlight off and let it drop.

"You're breaking the rules," she reminded him in between heated, wet kisses.

"Maybe," Rick was unconcerned. Hhe went to work on her neck, licking and sucking until she was squirming. "It'll be a helluva way to go though."

Vaguely, Michonne was aware of the sounds of their campsite abruptly ending, but Rick was rendering her mind fuzzy. It wasn't until the fire went out with a sudden whoosh that the canoodling couple broke apart.

"What the hell?" Rick set her down at once, turning until she was sheltered behind him. She clung to his shoulders in a death grip.

"Oh no," she began to chant lowly. "Oh no, oh no…"

"Stay by me," Rick instructed lowly, bending down to pick up the flashlight from the forest floor. He left it off. "We can get to the car." He began leading them slowly and methodically around the campsite.

"They're all gone," she whimpered. Wherever their friends were, she could not see them now. Michonne's heart was pounding, rattling frantically against her chest.

"Something must've happened," Rick speculated. "We need to—"

His words were cut off as something charged them, roaring in an inhuman voice. Michonne felt it grab her, attempting to pull her away from Rick. She let out a scream, adrenaline filling her. Without preamble, she kicked out hard, catching the attacker in the gut.

"Shit!" their would-be assailant let out a curse. His voice sounded incredibly familiar.

"What the hell, Rhee?" Rick yelled out. He began to laugh at once though, staring down at their friend. Glenn was doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"I had to," Glenn snorted. "Michonne made it too easy." Rosita, Morgan, and Maggie emerged as well, each chuckling heartily.

"Until she kicked you," Rick's voice held no small amount of pride. "You're lucky she didn't aim for your face."

"I'm going to kill you, Glenn," Michonne rushed for him. Rick stopped her, grabbing her around the hips and lifting her into his arms.

"You might want to get that fire started," Rick suggested. "Before the bugs come out."

"Bugs?" Glenn paled.

"What kind of bugs?" Rosita asked, panic edging her voice.

"Light that fire, or you're going to find out," Rick laughed. He shifted Michonne in his arms until she was in a bridal hold.

"Where are you going?" Morgan called after them.

"To change my wife's mind about camping," Rick answered. He led them into the tent, ignoring their friends' groans and protests. He laid Michonne down on top of the unrolled sleeping bags, pausing to still her shaking hands. "I don't think you need to worry about those rules anymore," he told her.

"Oh yeah?" fear was being replaced with something else as Rick settled down atop her.

"You kicked the hell out of Glenn," he laughed. "I think you're going to be just fine if anything else pops out."

Michonne began to giggle in earnest. "Maybe. I still don't like camping," she said.

"No?" Rick feigned pouting. "Anything I can do to change your mind?" he asked.

"You can try," she pulled him down on top of her, her fears forgotten.


	51. The Plan One Shot: Road Trip

**A/N: The fandom seems like it could use a little fluff, and I had time on my lunch break today. This is a one shot to go with my story The Plan.**

 **I hope you enjoy seeing baseball star Rick and lawyer extraordinaire Michonne play mommy and daddy for a bit. Let me know!**

* * *

Carl's first night on the road with Rick was one of the loneliest weekends of Michonne's life. She had no qualms about letting their toddler head off with his daddy. He was only going to be an only child for a few more months, and Rick missed their son terribly on long road trips. It only seemed fair that he get one on one time with their son too. Carl was old enough, he'd have supervision when Rick was pitching, and there was nothing Carl loved more than watching his dad toss a baseball around. Michonne had planned on capitalizing on her free time, catching up on rest and relaxation after a particularly challenging caseload.

Instead, she found herself lying awake in bed, her hand on the beginnings of her baby bump, pining for her boys. A book lay beside her on the comforter, opened but unread. Michonne's attention was on her phone, her eyes trained to highlights from tonight's Dodger's game. Her husband's voice piped in through the speakers of the phone. It was instantly soothing, though not nearly as much as the sight of Carl on his daddy's lap, grinning toothily at reporters during a press conference.

Rick's hands were around their son as he fielded questions, his hat resting jauntily on Carl's head. It was far too big for him, but that did not dissuade Carl from wearing it proudly.

Michonne smiled widely, listening to the steady cadence of Rick's voice, wishing she'd gone with them. She missed summers on the road with her husband, squeezing in writing papers between games, sightseeing during the day and cheering him on at night.

The phone in her hand began to buzz, the notification for an incoming FaceTime lighting up the screen. Eagerly, she sat up, waddling somewhat awkwardly with the added weight of the baby. Her grin as she answered was mirrored by her husband, hundreds of miles away.

"Hey baby," he drawled lazily. His hair was wet from a shower and he was dressed down in an old USC t-shirt. Carl was still in his lap, still in Rick's hat, blinking sleepily at the camera.

"Hi boys," Michonne's voice was sing-songy, the tone she used for their son. Carl responded to it immediately.

"Mama!" he announced, waving a chubby brown fist. His complexion leaned towards his mother, but his features favored his father. Michonne's heart swelled at just the sight of him.

"Did you have fun with daddy?" she crooned, wishing she was beside them.

"Yes," he yawned. "He gave me his hat."

"I see," Michonne touched the screen.

"And he played real good," Carl continued, yawning again around the words. "Lots of people were asking us questions."

"Were they?" Michonne wanted to giggle, especially at Rick's face.

"Uh-huh," Carl didn't notice anything amiss. He leaned his head back on his father's chest, knocking the hat askew. Rick gently removed it.

"We just wanted to say goodnight before bed, right son?" Rick bounced Carl in his lap. The toddler was falling asleep already.

"Night, night," Carl mumbled, his eyes drifting shut. "Love you."

"Love you too, baby" Michonne blew them both a kiss. "I'll let you go," Michonne said regretfully.

Rick shifted their son in his arms, preparing to stand up. "Don't you go anywhere mama," he chastised teasingly. "I'm going to put this squirt down, then daddy want to talk to you." He grinned into the camera.

"Is that right?" Michonne flushed, her mood shifting.

"That's right," he assured her. The camera bounced as he stood up. "I'll be right back," he told her, "Unless you're too tired."

"I'm not," she said quickly. "I miss you."

"I miss you too," he smiled. "Let me put the baby to sleep and I'll tell you just how much."

Michonne laughed as she waited, suddenly feeling less lonely. Next road trip, she was definitely tagging along.


	52. Georgia Peaches

**A/N: I can't stop the fluff from coming. I hope you enjoy! This one goes with the Dead and the Dark Rider.**

* * *

By the time the sixth basketful made its way to the pantry, the whole of the house began to smell like peaches. The sticky sweet scent was immediately comforting (if not a bit overpowering), conjuring up memories of Indian summers many years before the turn. Judith was in heaven as she ran from shelf to shelf, resting her little hands on the stacks of fruit.

"What are we going to do with it all?" she asked, eyes wide in wonder.

So began the first great peach preserving event at the Grimes' farm. Everyone- Carl, Judith, Morgan, Duane, Carol, Tyreese, Sasha, Theodore, Daryl, Hershel, Beth, Glenn, Maggie, and even little Sophia, Hershel Jr. and Andre—were crowded into the kitchen. The biggest two pots they possessed bubbled on the stove, and every jar they could muster sat ready to make preserves and spiced peaches to get them through the winter. The star of the show was undoubtedly the pie. Every child was crowded around the dining table, getting diligent lessons from Hershel on how to make his late wife's famous peach cobbler.

"When you said you had a peach orchard, I must admit I didn't expect all of this," Michonne told her husband.

"Must be all the rain we got last year," Rick said. He wasn't fussed. There were over a dozen mouths to feed around here, and he never could resist a Georgia peach.

"Are they really that good?" Michonne asked, raising a brow.

"What?" Rick nearly choked. He turned to his wife, giving her his full attention. "Have you never had a Georgia peach?"

Michonne shrugged, adjusting their son on her hip. Even Andre seemed focused on the food preparation. He reached out for his siblings, fussing to be put down.

Rick took him gently from his mother, hurrying the baby over to his siblings. Judith immediately made room for her brother on her lap, securing him carefully before going back to layering spiced fruit inside a pie dish.

"Rick, what are you—" Michonne began to ask. Rick did not allow her to finish her question, but seized two peaches from the table before taking her hand.

"C'mon," he instructed, tugging her outside. Summer was in full swing, the heat almost too much. Rick led her to the shade, climbing into the back of their wagon behind the barn. Michonne followed bemusedly.

"Is it really that big of a deal?" she repeated her inquiry as Rick offered her the fruit with a flourish. He watched her intently as she bit in, the juices immediately running down her lips and onto her chin.

"Good?" Rick asked knowingly.

In answer, she let out a satisfied hum before taking another bite. Happily, she nodded, sucking the juice from her fingers before continuing to devour the peach. Rick watched, licking his own lips. "Aren't you going to eat yours?" Michonne swallowed before asking.

Rick kissed her, sucking the flavor from her lips. She let out a delighted squeal, dragging him down on top of her. "There's something else I want to eat first," he whispered in her ear, relishing in her giggles.

In hindsight, associating his favorite fruit with his favorite activity with his wife might not have been the best of plans in so crowded of a house. Still, every time Michonne reached for a peach, Rick couldn't find it in himself to complain.


	53. Nightmare

**A/N: More domestic fluff. Rick Dreams. Michonne chases the nightmares away.**

* * *

When the nightmares started, the easiest way to calm Rick down was to hold him. The dreams came fewer and further inbetween now as the horrors of the past began to soften with the addition of their recent unexpected blessings. Nevertheless, Michonne had a system in place, a surefire way to calm her lover's fears.

"Shhh…" she soothed, sitting up slowly. Rick was trembling beside her, his skin flushed and heated, his muscles spasming with a series of twitches. Michonne lifted their covers, creating space. Methodically, she began to inch forward, walking her hands along Rick's body.

She traced the tan and scarred skin, dancing over old wounds, new scrapes, light brown hair now flecked in white. His hands were calloused, hard from work, from fighting, from defending their community. She continued up his arms, corded tight, to his shoulders. Inch by inch, Michonne rubbed the tension away before coming to settle atop him. For her final piece de resistance, she lifted her hands to cup his chin.

"Rick," she murmured, bending to kiss him lightly. "It's ok. I've got you."

He woke up suddenly, his eyes snapping open. His arms closed around her on instinct, crushing her against his bare chest, covering her. "'Chonne," he rumbled out the clipped version of her name, shaking his head as though to clear his mind.

"I'm here," she told him. Absently, she began to drag her fingers through the short hair of his beard, tugging just slightly. He leaned into her touch. A silence stretched between them, comfortable and warm, with neither making any motion to release the other. "What was it?" Michonne asked.

"The road that night," he said simply.

Michonne remembered it well. She nodded, lying down, pressing her head into his shoulder. Rick kissed her forehead immediately.

"It's been a while since I thought about that," Rick whispered. He swallowed thickly. Michonne wondered vaguely which part of it all haunted him the most.

"You saved us that night," she reminded him of the result, of the reason for his violence. She kissed him again, lingering this time. He claimed her mouth with his own, tugging at her locs. Michonne swung one leg over his waist, determined to thank him for all he had done, all that he continued to do. Rick responded eagerly, lifting his hips to meet her.

"I love you," he told her, his hands gripping her waist, guiding her motions.

Michonne bent over him, peppering his face with kisses, spurred on by his breathless groans. "I love you too," she promised.

When she had worn him out, Rick fell asleep beneath her, arms still wrapped around her waist. Michonne listened to his steady breathing, the rhythm lulling her back to sleep.

Together, they both slept soundly.


	54. Halloween Costumes

**A/N: There are literally 5 minutes left of Halloween where I am, but you can blame msdoomandgloom and her amazing art for this one. Check her out on tumblr or IG to see the superb Halloween drawing she did of Richonne in costume.**

 **BTW, This is a one shot for the Law and Order version on Grimes 2.0.**

 **Happy Halloween!**

* * *

No one could have anticipated the reaction to Rick's Halloween costume.

The man himself certainly hadn't given it much thought. She'd reminded him morning of Halloween that Judith's school expected them in costume tonight for their holiday event, and that yes, he would need to participate.

"What are you going as?" he'd asked her as he shoved his feet into his work boots near the front door.

"A cat," she informed him. It was a somewhat petty move on her part, after Rick had put a hard veto on the idea of adopting a feline as a family pet. By the tiny but distinct smirk on his face, her husband did not miss her meaning. Still, he only shrugged, pulling on his gun belt before kissing her on the cheek.

"Guess I'll be some kind of animal then too," he said simply. With a shouted goodbye, he was out the door, off to save the world one arrest at time.

Michonne headed into the office, working her way through one caseload at a time until she'd nearly forgotten the holiday. It wasn't until she was home, zipping her black dress up and straightening her ears that she thought to ask her husband what he had managed to scrounge up.

"The store had slim pickings," he informed her in a tone that suggested he could scarcely care less. "But I found something."

He held it up for her inspection. Michonne guffawed immediately.

"Carl is going to kill you," she said between snickers, reaching for her mask.

Carl didn't kill his father, but the blood left his face completely when his parents came down the stairs.

"Dad…" he groaned immediately, smashing his palm over his eyes. "Are you kidding me?"

Dre, still a preteen and marginally kinder, tried a different route. "Are you a…. teddy bear, dad?"

Michonne watched in amusement as Rick scoffed. "I ain't a toy bear," he assured both of their sons, catching Judith in his arms as she went into delighted squeals at the sight of him.

"You look soft like a teddy bear, daddy!" she shouted, overjoyed. Immediately, she hugged him, pausing only to bat at Michonne's ears. "You look pretty mommy."

"Mom looks good," Carl agreed. He turned his disbelieving blue gaze back to his father. "Dad's dressed like a damn stuffed animal."

"Language," Rick corrected. "And I told you, I ain't a teddy bear." With great panache, he zipped down the front of his brown bear suit, revealing a plain white t-shirt. In his distinct bold, no-nonsense handwriting, in bright red ink, Rick had scrawled the words "Papa Bear".

This addition did nothing to gain his sons' confidence, though Michonne's stomach hurt from laughing by the time they piled into the car.

He looked cute, she decided, despite the absurdity of it. Only her man had the confidence to wear a cheap brown bear onesie, complete with a hood and ears pulled up. His beard was on full display. He'd started growing it the moment he'd made detective. Michonne had no complaints. She liked the contrast of his silver facial hair with his short cropped brown curls. The distinction was even clearer now, the beard bright against the faux bear fur.

She clearly wasn't the only one who noticed it's appeal.

Rick drew the eyes of no less than a dozen mother's on their way to the auditorium. Carl kept his head low beneath his old sheriff's hat, Dre walked a few steps in front of them, flexing in his Black Panther suit, while his baby sister, a miniature Shuri, tailed after them. Still, it was Rick who was drawing all the attention. Michonne mentioned it to them as they took their seats.

"Now you know how I feel," he told her good-naturedly. "Half the dads and some of the moms here can't stop looking at you." He shot her an appreciative look. Her cardigan, added for modesty's sake, could only conceal so much from her husband's knowing eyes.

"If I showed up in pajamas, I doubt they'd stare," Michonne teased. "Half the moms in here would jump you if they got half the chance."

"No clothing on earth can hide that ass of yours," he whispered this directly in her ear. Cozily, he tossed a heavy, furry arm over her shoulder. "Besides, let 'em look. It doesn't matter."

Michonne laughed, kissing him on the cheek for good measure before the lights dimmed. "My thoughts exactly," she assured him.

Two hours, three pillowcases of candy, two sugar highs, and one sugar crash later found the Grimes' family returning home. Carl retreated up the stairs, eager to speak with his girlfriend via phone before heading to bed. Andre went to sleep immediately (or at least went to his room. More than likely, he was two comic books away from any actual rest) and Judith had long since passed out in her father's arms.

Rick took their daughter to their room. Michonne seized the opportunity, hurrying to their bedroom. She shed the cardigan, let her locs down, and straightened her ears before draping herself artfully across the center of their king bed. The black dress clung in places she wouldn't have dared shown off at their children's school. This was for Rick's eyes only. He shut the bedroom door snugly behind him as he entered, spotting her immediately.

"See something you like, papa bear?" she asked her husband when he joined her, his pupils dilating at once.

"Damn baby," the words left him on something like a growl. The sound alone gave her the most delightful chills.

She crooked a finger at him, feeling powerful. "Come here then," she all but purred.

In two steps, he was on her, pulling her into his arms. Strong hands traced the contours of her costume. "You gonna leave the mask on?" he asked her, his teeth teasing at her skin.

"Whatever you want," she breathed, pressing herself into his grasp.

"Good," he murmured his approval, voice low and clipped. Without preamble, he slid his palms beneath her skirt.

"Are you going to wear your costume?" she half-teased, trying to regain some semblance of control.

He rolled his hips forward, pressing the heat of him directly into her. Michonne swallowed a moan.

"I think you're going to want me to take it off," he rolled his hips again, a devilish smirk lighting up his face as she parted her legs for him, tossing her head back shamelessly. "But don't worry, baby. I'm still your papa bear."

Michonne giggled, though her laughter did not last long. Rick covered her mouth in a sinfully deep kiss, his tongue thrusting forward as he hiked the skirt of her dress up. He disengaged for a moment, pushing the costume down and off his shoulders before shoving it off completely. The t-shirt followed a moment later, tossed away by Michonne's eager hands.

By dawn, Michonne's costume was in absolute shambles, an unrecognizable scrap of ebon fabric and crumpled ears. Her mask had disappeared (she'd find it a week later wedged between the night stand and her heels beneath the bed), and it was sure to be an incredibly sleep-deprived workday.

Michonne could not have anticipated her reaction to her husband's costume, true. Though, as he collapsed beside her, sweaty, disheveled, and finally satiated, she felt herself already looking forward to what he managed to cook up for their next Halloween.


	55. Touch

**A/N: I'm continuing my crusade against angst with even more fluff! Have a Married At First Sight prequel of sorts. Michonne and Rick get acquainted with touching one another. Please let me know what you think**

* * *

The first time they touched, it caught Rick completely off guard. Her hand clasped his shoulder roughly, jerking him back so suddenly that he nearly lost his footing. Barely a second later, a walker snapped at the empty air Rick had just occupied. In another blink of an eye, a katana sliced the head cleanly from its shoulders.

"You ok?" a voice asked calmly.

Rick spun on his heel, heart beating wildly. Michonne was just behind him, her sword clutched in one hand, her other still on his arm. He locked eyes with her, the familiar sensation of nervousness sweeping over him at once. "I'm fine," he managed to tell her, his throat tight. "Thanks."

She nodded, looking somewhat bemused. Her eyes, wide and dark and alert, flicked over him. She let go of him, her fingers brushing his arm as she returned to grip her katana two-handedly. "Be careful," she smiled at him just the slightest, hurrying back off toward the waiting caravan.

Rick watched her go, tracking her precise movements as she joined her team from the Kingdom. Michonne turned back towards him for just a moment before climbing aboard one of the trucks. She smiled again. Rick's face flushed a deep crimson.

"Smooth…" The comment came from Glenn. Rick's friend laughed, shaking his head beneath his faded ball cap.

"Shut up," Rick fired back. It wasn't the most dignified response, and only served to make Glenn laugh harder.

"Might want to get that blushing under control," Glenn suggested, returning to the task at hand.

Rick only blushed more furiously, hiding his face as he continued on with the supply run.

-l-l-l-

"Rick…" Lori sighed as though she'd never met anyone more irritating in her life.

"What?" he asked, turning confused eyes on her.

"You don't always need to do that," Lori shook his hand away, freeing her fingers.

"Hold your hand?" Rick furrowed his brow.

"I ain't a little girl. You don't need to protect me," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, pinning him with her derisive glare. "The scariest thing in here is the tiger."

Deciding it wasn't worth the fight, Rick let her go, putting space between them. "I was just trying to be nice," he shrugged off her dismissal. These community meetings could be draining, an endless parade of issues that needed fixing, supplies that needed fetching, tasks that he would need to help with. He'd reached for his girlfriend's hand absentmindedly. Apparently, his touch disgusted her during the light of day.

"You don't always have to be so nice," she informed him.

Holding in another sigh, Rick turned his attention to the members of the Kingdom who'd just arrived. "I'm going to go greet Ezekiel," he told Lori.

"I'll be here," she remained seated, barely looking back at the others.

Rick moved off without her, fixing his face to mask his annoyance. He joined his parents in the receiving line, shaking hands with their guests. When he spotted Michonne, his irritation evaporated.

"Hey," he smiled at her, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it to her.

"Hi Rick," Michonne smiled back. Her long locs were free tonight, dancing into her face as she nodded at him. She shook his hand, her strong fingers gripping his before releasing him. Rick reluctantly let her go.

"Rick," his father turned to him. "Why don't you and Michonne sit together?" It was not a suggestion, and both parties knew it.

Nervously, Rick walked her to the front pew, sliding in between Lori and Michonne. Both young women nodded at one another coolly before apparently resigning to never speak. Rick sat between them, trying and failing to focus on the meeting. His hand was twitching again, longing for contact.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that it was Michonne he yearned to reach for and not Lori.

To his right, Michonne let out a small sigh as the members of their community began to gripe. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, shooting him a conspirator's grin.

"Try to stay awake" she whispered with a wink. "Our parents are going to quiz us after."

"Bet I get more questions right than you," he teased.

"You're on," she reached for him, bumping her fist against his.

She kept her hand just centimeters from his through the whole town hall meeting. When the quiz came afterward, Rick lost their bet soundly.

He found he didn't mind so much.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne had spent the whole of the day skittish as a fawn around him, but there was nothing tentative about her now. Her bare arms were draped over his shoulders, her fingers fisted snuggly in his hair, her legs wrapped on either side of his waist. Rick wasn't quite sure how they'd gotten here, nearly naked and breathless and married— _married_ —but he'd need to thank God and both of their communities sometime soon.

He hadn't expected this tonight. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd expected it to ever happen. Nevertheless, Michonne, beautiful, graceful, fierce Michonne, had seemingly no reservations about their union now as she pressed herself into him. She ground against him, rolling her hips enticingly, almost desperately. His self-control was splintering.

"Do you still want to get it over with?" he managed to gasp. She had seemed resigned to consummate their marriage sooner rather than later, an obligation she did not look enthused about. Perhaps her mind had changed, but he'd stop if she wanted to, if she wasn't ready. He could wait as long as she needed to.

"No," she shook her head. Her skin was heated, her lips still brushing his. Rick felt the sting of disappointment despite his chivalrous intentions. He moved to release her, to put space between them, but she stopped him. "I want you to go slow," she instructed, her voice low, full of something he'd never heard before.

"Whatever you want," he promised her, his blood rushing. He laid her out across the mattress beneath him, determined to touch her in all the ways he'd only ever fantasized about. He dragged his hands up her bare legs, flattened a palm against her stomach, kissed every inch of her within reach. Michonne encouraged him through her plaintive moans, returning his affections with plenty of touching of her own. She was particularly infatuated with his hair, holding the curls between her fingers, tightening around them when he discovered the spots that brought her the most pleasure.

By the time she reached down for him, catching him snuggly in her grasp, Rick felt as though he was freefalling. When he pushed inside of her at last, he nearly blacked out from the sheer pleasure of it all. Remembering his promise to go slow, he rocked gently in and out, angling this way and that until her breathless gasps became one long, sustained cry. Every bit of her tightened around him at once, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her legs clamping around his waist, her body pulling him deeper and deeper until he fell clear over the edge, bringing her with him.

Rick collapsed atop Michonne, their bodies heated, drenched, spent completely. He made a motion to release her, determined to give her space. Michonne held tight, rubbing lightly at his back.

Content, Rick laid in his wife's arms, kissing down her neck and shoulders, listening to her pant beneath him. He was vaguely aware of the sound of his own voice as they spoke quietly to one another. He rolled to his back and Michonne followed him, sprawling out across his bare chest. Smiling, he wrapped his arms around her again.

"I think this is going to work out, Mrs. Grimes," he whispered, kissing her hairline.

"I think it will," she agreed, relaxing against him.


	56. Superhero Holiday

**A/N: I missed Christmas by a few days, but hopefully you all enjoy this anyway! This one-shot goes with Law and Order. Enjoy some holiday fluff!**

* * *

"All right," Rick began to recount, staring at the bedspread in front of him. "We've got Black Panther sheets—"

"Check," Michonne looked over their inventory.

"Shuri's panther gloves, complete with flashing lights and sound effects," Rick continued.

"Double check." Michonne located them in the pile.

"Spider-Man mask—"

"Which one?" Michonne felt a flicker of panic.

"Miles Morales," Rick answered coolly, lifting the black and red toy. "Give me some credit. I listen to you guys talk enough."

"Great job, baby," Michonne nodded her approval. "And the action figures?"

"Avengers playset. It's got about 30 guys in it. Dre's going to love it."

"For Carl?" Michonne questioned. It was odd that their eldest was out of the toy phase now. She tried not to dwell on it. There were only so many Christmases left like this, holidays where their children were children. She'd missed nearly the whole of this Christmas season bogged down in casework. The guilt nagged at her.

"PS4 games. The two you told me about. They were the most expensive of the whole damn bunch." Rick groused, pointing to the two thin packages on their bed.

Michonne laughed. "You used to complain about the price of toys," she reminded him.

"None of these toys were $60 a pop. Carl's going to be playing these things until he's in college," Rick snorted.

Michonne shook her head, smiling. "So that's the mask for Dre, the gloves for Judes, the sheets for RJ, the videogames for Carl, the set for the little ones to share." Michonne mentally scanned their Christmas list. "Are we missing anything?"

"We better not be," Rick reached for her, tugging her under his arm. "I ain't going back to the store."

Michonne smoothed his hair back, kissing him on one whiskered cheek. "Thanks for handling the shopping, Superman."

"That's DC," Rick said almost absently, reaching for a roll of wrapping paper. "Our kids like Marvel."

Michonne let out a laugh from somewhere deep in her belly, impressed. "Our children made you into a nerd, Rick!" she pointed an accusatory finger.

He looked at her, a grin playing at the corner of his lips. "Well, they take after you," he pointed out.

"You like me," she reminded him, retrieving scissors and tape. Together, they sat on the bed, preparing to wrap the gifts.

"Eh," Rick shrugged. "Some days I'm fond of you."

"We have 4 kids," she reminded him.

"Those happened on the good days," he quipped. Rick expertly cut a large square of wrapping paper, passing it to her. Michonne seized the mask, settling it in the center before she began to fold.

"Ha-ha," she laughed without humor, focused on the task at hand. In a few practiced twists of her wrists, the mask was wrapped. Rick applied the tape and the nametag, signing it as "Santa". The rest of the gifts went quickly, gathering in a small pile on the floor of their closet. Michonne's mind filled with years past, memories of sneaking around gathering presents for Carl and Dre, then Judith, now RJ. All too soon, Carl would be in college, and their toy pile would dwindle. She felt the sting of emotion prickle behind her eyes.

"Hey," her husband read her mood, as was his habit. His arms were around her in a heartbeat. He pushed aside the remnants of wrapping paper and scotch tape, settling her in his lap. "I was just joking, sweetheart," he kissed her forehead. "You know I love you every day."

She slapped at him playfully. "Obviously." She tugged at the short hairs of his beard, enjoying the texture. "I was thinking about the kids. They won't be kids forever." It was racing by, quicker than she'd ever imagined it would. In what felt like the blink of an eye, she and Rick had blended their family and added two more children.

"Thank God," Rick exhaled in relief. "I had to fight three grandmothers for the Spider-Man mask." She rolled her eyes but Rick did not relent. " _Three_ , Chonne."

In seconds, she was giggling again, her mood lightened. "Next year, I'll go with you," she promised. "I'll throw some elbows." She was actually looking forward to it.

"I'm holding you to that," Rick kissed her, pushing a stray loc back into its twisted coif.

"We're done early," Michonne told him. "How about I treat you and the kids to a movie?"

"Didn't you want to see Aquaman?" he asked, already pulling out his phone to look up times. "Your boyfriend is in that one."

She rolled her eyes again but laughed. "How about you pick the movie? It'll give you a break from all our nerd stuff," she gestured vaguely around her. None of their children had inherited Rick's affinity for western movies and country music. He was hopelessly outnumbered in this house.

Rick shrugged, attempting to be nonchalant but failing. "I wouldn't mind seeing it," he said.

Michonne paused, staring with gaped mouth. "You _want_ to see it!" she accused with glee.

"Dre and Carl have been talking about it. It sounds good. And Wonder Woman wasn't bad," Rick explained, his neck and ears flushing bright pink.

Michonne opened her mouth, letting out one word in a sing-song voice, "Nerd…" she held the note, delighted.

"Yeah well, takes one to know one," Rick fired back. He smacked her on the ass for good measure before standing up. "C'mon, there's a showing in 30 minutes." Surreptitiously, he reached for the reading glasses the doctor had told him to use a few months back.

"Nerd!" Michonne dissolved into laughter again.

He rolled his eyes but took her hand. "Like I said," he bent to hand Michonne her Wonder Woman wallet. "Takes one to know one."

Giggling like children, they headed downstairs.

They returned home late that Christmas Eve night, their children buzzing. Dre and Judith were busy recounting the movie blow by blow to the amusement of their eldest brother. Carl answered questions and participated gamely, grinning at the two of them. RJ was knocked out in his father's arms, worn-out completely by 2 and a half hours of CGI-fueled excitement.

"What did you think, daddy?" Judith asked her father, cherubic little face looking up at him expectantly.

"It wasn't Wonder Woman," Rick told her with a smile, "but I liked it."

"What was your favorite part?" Dre chimed in enthusiastically.

"We can talk about the movie tomorrow," Michonne stepped in, sparing her husband. "But you better get to bed before Santa comes."

The name "Santa" brought RJ careening back into the world of the waking. He and Judith let out a cheer as Dre and Carl exchanged conspirators' grins.

"C'mon," Carl gathered his siblings. "Let's go get cookies and milk."

He led them all off in a chorus of enthused voices and shrieks of delight. Rick released RJ so that the toddler could scramble off after them. Rick rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, his dark-framed glasses bouncing.

"Hey Clark Kent, your glasses are still on," Michonne teased lightheartedly. She reached for him, rubbing the back of his neck soothingly. Rick had taken on the bulk of holiday preparations this year while she was bogged down with cases. He hadn't complained, but she could sense he was burning out.

"I forgot," he smiled tiredly. "And…I can see better with them on," he added bashfully.

"Go lay down," Michonne instructed. "I'll get the kids in bed."

It took many kisses, hugs, and two bedtime stories before all four of their children retired. Michonne was exhausted herself as she returned to the master bedroom. She found her husband sprawled-eagle across the mattress, his glasses hanging haphazardly on the bridge of his nose. Michonne took a moment to watch him for a moment. When it seemed clear that he was deeply asleep, Michonne crept to the closet. Stealing downstairs, she laid the presents out in piles before retiring at last to her room. She changed into her Christmas pajamas, retrieving the last remaining gift from the closet and bringing it to bed with her.

"Hey Superman," she whispered this in her husband's ear as she joined him. "Scoot over."

Rick woke with a start, sitting up. "We have to do the presents," he whispered raggedly.

Michonne laughed. "I handled it."

"You didn't wake me?"

"You earned some rest," she kissed him, settling beside him. "Next year, we'll do this together," she promised him.

"Good," he rolled over, tugging his shirt over his head and placing the glasses on the bedside table. He kicked his jeans off and pulled on his own Holiday jammies before climbing back in bed beside her. "I missed you, Wonder Woman," he used an old pet name, given to her during a particularly nasty bout on pneumonia when they'd still been just dating.

"I missed you too, Superman," she curled into him, enjoying the feeling of Rick wrapping his arms around her. "Thank you for handling everything."

"My pleasure," he kissed her for good measure, already succumbing to sleep's siren call.

"I got you something," Michonne reached over him, loathe to keep him up, but unable to keep the secret any longer.

Rick blinked his eyes open, giving her his full attention. He reached for the box, grinning at her as he opened it. Two silver cufflinks glinted up from the box, each in a distinct S shape. "Superman?" Rick asked with amusement.

"It's been ten Christmases together," Michonne explained. "A decade of holidays with you. I'm taking you out to dinner, just the two of us. Those are for your suit," she kissed him, smoothing his short hair back.

"They're made of tin?" he guessed.

Michonne laughed in surprise. "How did you know?"

Rick got up in answer, slid his glasses on and rifled through his bedside drawer. He returned with a wrapped box of his own. "I was going to save it, but…" he passed her the gift.

Michonne unwrapped it, unearthing a silver necklace from which the Wonder Woman logo hung. She began to laugh in earnest. "Great minds," she said, holding it up.

"Tin, for 10 years," Rick chuckled.

"I'll wear it to dinner," Michonne grinned.

Rick coaxed the box from her hand, setting it down beside his cufflinks. "Merry Christmas, Michonne." He kissed her, rolling her beneath him, his exhaustion forgotten.

"Merry Christmas, Rick," she whispered back. "Leave the glasses on."

With a laugh, Rick reached over, turning off the light.


	57. NYE

**A/N: Msdoomandgloom derailed by day (again) with her gorgeous art. check it out on Tumblr and enjoy my interpretation of what happened next.**

 **Happy 2019!**

* * *

Rick gripped a fistful of his wife's skirt, the sheer gold fabric bunching in his hands. Disregarding the sanctity of her couture completely, he pushed the satin up, exposing her legs to his greedy hands.

"Shit, Michonne," he grunted as he kicked the door shut behind him. "You're trying to kill me."

She smiled, backing out of his grasp, moving gracefully on sky-high heels. Her skirts swirled around her, allowing him a peek of her dark skin beneath it. "I had to remind you what you've been missing," she said coquettishly. Her teeth peeked out between blood red lips as she offered him a promising smile.

"Trust me," he assured her, rushing forward. "There ain't been a day where I forgot."

Michonne tugged at his tie, ruffling his navy blue suit jacket. Her eyes dragged over him hungrily, darkening as his hands worked over her. "Six months, Rick…" she began.

"Is too damn long," he finished in a hurry, grasping her ass beneath her skirt. She gasped, breathless, her legs working their way up and around his hips.

"I missed you," the words were little more than a moan, brought on as he pressed against her. Her hands groped at his tie and jacket, forcing them off and down his shoulder before moving to fumble with his belt.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," he returned, pushing the straps of her golden dress down. It was all he could do to not just rip the outfit off of her. She looked stunning, godless like even, but it couldn't compare to how she looked naked by a long shot. He lifted her up, sprawling her across the bed behind them.

Michonne raised her arms above her head, allowing him to undress her. Rick nearly choked when he saw the thin fabric of her lingerie, colored to match the gown. "Don't leave again," she instructed, reaching up to shove his pants down and off.

"I won't," he promised. He'd quit this job today if it meant she'd keep looking at him like she was—lips kiss swollen, hair wild and in disarray, skin glowing, her feet still clad in those crimson-backed stilettoes.

"You really missed me?" she asked, undoing his buttons one by one, her eyes never leaving his.

"Of course baby," he bent over her, sliding his fingers beneath the flimsy lace still adorning her.

"Prove it," she challenged, a wicked smirk on her face.

Rick smirked right back, tossing her legs one by one of his shoulders. "Yes ma'am," he complied, bending his head to kiss her all over.

Midnight came and went, the fireworks exploding in the distance as the party raged on just below. Neither Rick nor Michonne paid them any mind. Their gasps and moans rang louder in their ears than the whole of the New Year's celebrations.

"I'm glad you're home," Michonne shuddered as Rick flipped her over once more. Her fingers curled into the sheets below as she arched her back.

Rick gripped her hips, pulling her upwards. "Me too, baby," he thrust forward, delighting as she cried out in pleasure. "Me too."


	58. Bathtime

**A/N: Because we deserve fluff, and because the Grimes family deserves better.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Rick was somewhat out of practice with this, years removed from the simple task. Still, like riding a bicycle, he found the motions returning to him until he was completely immersed. Bottles littered the countertop of the bathroom—his shaving cream, Michonne's lotions, liquid soap, tear-free shampoo, coconut oil, brushes and combs—the trappings of domesticity. He'd fought hard for these luxuries, for this quiet time, for a home filled with the clutter that marked him as a father.

"All right, son, it's just you and me," Rick rumbled out. Carefully, he administered a dollop of bodywash on the soft cloth. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger until it began to bubble. Ever so gently, he lowered the cloth onto the brown skin of his infant son.

RJ began to giggle at once, delighted by this new sensation. Enraptured, large brown eyes stared up at him. Rick recognized those eyes; he saw them often in the face of his wife. To see them now in the tiny face of their son was something else entirely.

"You look just like your mama," Rick informed his captive audience. He busied himself with washing RJ's little limbs. "Same pretty skin. Same big 'ol smile." Rick grinned his own lopsided grin, chuckling when RJ squealed happily.

He set his washcloth down for a moment to saturate RJs thick curls, lathering his ebon mop of hair until it began to suds.

"You know, your brother liked bath time too," Rick recounted. "Both of 'em. Carl used to splash all the water out of the tub," he smiled wistfully at the memory. "Mama said Andre used to get quiet as a mouse in the bath. Wonder who you'll be like."

In answer, RJ squealed again, his feet thrashing wildly, as though he was eager for more stories about the brothers that came before him.

"Guess you're more like Carl," Rick sputtered, laughing as well as he wiped warm water from his face. "You want to hear some more stories?"

RJ continued his happy babbling, staring up at his daddy like he was the only thing in the whole wide world. Rick's heart contracted, a familiar love stirring inside of him.

"Carl was kind of a rascal," he began. "A good kid, but Lord, he kept me busy. Mama says Andre was too. Guess we're going to have our hands full with you, junior."

RJ only laughed, seizing the washcloth from his father and immediately inserting it in his mouth.

"Yup," Rick bent to kiss his son's damp forehead. "Just like your brothers."

Rick continued his work and his stories, content.


	59. Sunday Rituals

**A/N: An AU for a kinder universe, where the Grimes family is alive, well, and loves making pancakes. Enjoy!**

* * *

The task of making breakfast would have been much faster if he and Michonne had undertaken it alone. Rick found that he did not much mind the delays. Winter was slipping away but the frost still clung to the windows, fogging the panes as though it was reluctant to depart. It was warm inside, the heat from the gas stove spreading over the whole of their little kitchen. Michonne had switched on the stereo, the way she did every Sunday morning. Rick could piece out snippets of her favorite songs, worship hymns and gospel choirs, a tradition stretching back generations. She'd brought this ritual and others into their home. Rick had brought pancake Sundays.

"You need cinnamon," Carl imparted to his younger siblings. Soon, he would be too old for rituals like this, onto a life of his own and Sunday morning habits of his own making. For now, Rick cherished this time where his all-too-often-surly teenager softened enough to make Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes with the siblings who couldn't get enough of him.

Andre, every dutiful, ever as patient as his brother was short-tempered, doled out whisks and spoons, carefully instructing the youngest two on how to add apples, how to mix the batter until the lumps were smooth. Judith flanked him, meticulously slicing fruit into equal sized pieces with a butter knife. Her hair was already slipping from the braids that her mother had fixed them in, the silky texture less adept at holding its shape than Michonne's. RJ hummed loudly along to the music beside her, tossing in ingredients with all the panache of a television chef, overjoyed as always to simply be a part of things.

"They're getting better," Michonne pressed herself into his side, leaning against him. She took a deep draw of her coffee before handing him the mug.

"I think you're right," Rick took a sip. She'd added milk and sugar, something that was clearly for his benefit. Michonne liked her coffee black.

"Should we help?" she asked, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Rick kissed the side of her face. "We'll do the stove stuff." He snatched a slice of apple that escaped Judith's notice and held it out to his wife.

"Sounds good," she smiled, opening her mouth to accept the snack before settling back against him.

In the end, the pancakes were lumpy but unburnt, and only one batch had ended up almost red from too much cinnamon. The kitchen stood in disarray, a mess of sticky batter and oiled skillets. They'd get to it later. All in all, it was a success.

"How are they daddy?" RJ questioned brightly, looking at him attentively from across the table.

Rick swallowed thickly around a lump of cinnamon and apple but managed to smile. "Delicious," he proclaimed, ignoring Carl's smirk and Andre's quiet laugh.

Michonne gamely refilled his coffee, setting it before him. She kissed his cheek, using the opportunity to whisper in his ear. "I'll take the bad ones next week," she promised.

Rick just reached for her hand before taking another bite.


	60. Sympathy Bump

**A/N: A little Richonne pregnancy fluff from a kinder timeline. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Rick held up the offending article, disbelief written all over his face.

"My jeans don't fit," he announced in wonder.

Michonne looked up from where she lay, sprawled eagle on their bed, her own pants hanging uselessly around her ankles. She'd long since stored away her skintight jeans in exchange for roomier sizes. It seemed it was time to move up yet another size.

Rick tugged at the waistband, staring back down at the jeans that he absolutely refused to part with. They were more patches and thread than actual blue jean at this point, but Rick did not mind. Michonne found other worries here at the end of the world than her husband's preferred wardrobe, and so the pants weathered the test of time. Now, however, they had hit a hitch. Rick struggled to hook the metal button into the hole. With a gasp he succeeded, but the zipper would not be forced upwards. Michonne laughed just to look at him.

"Chonne..." he whined, sounding more like their toddler than the fearsome leader of the Alexandria Safe Zone.

Michonne's laughter escalated. "Mine don't fit either," she reassured him, kicking the pants off from around her ankles, and lounging more comfortably on the bed.

"Yeah," Rick drawled, still looking perplexed, "but you're pregnant…"

Michonne snorted. "Rick," she began, looking for a way to sugarcoat what she wanted to say next.

"What?" he was on edge at once. She crooked a finger at him, beckoning him towards her.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of…" she started. Rick reddened already. "It happened to Mike too. Lots of people get one when their partner is pregnant."

"Are you saying I'm fat?" he asked, aghast.

Michonne held in a laugh. "No," she quickly imparted. "The world is safer. We have food now. You're-"

"Going on a diet," he decided at once, releasing the button of his jeans with a flourish. He let out a relieved sigh before quickly fixing his face. He stared her down, blue eyes sharp, daring her to laugh.

Michonne let out a snort. "I like you with some meat on your bones."

Rick pushed his stomach out for comic effect. The once flat contours had rounded out in the months since they'd found out she was pregnant. Rick kept her company whenever her appetite hit, and opportunities for cardio had become scarce in the winter months. He spent most of his time at her side in bed, keeping her warm.

"It ain't that bad, right?" he asked, the hint of insecurity peeking through.

Michonne wiggled her body until she was sitting upright. "Rick, come here," she instructed. He walked towards her. Michonne reached for him, yanking him down beside her. She ran her palm over his stomach at the same time that his hands came to cradle the baby bump between them. "I love it," she assured him.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice darkening with something like his old confidence.

"Yeah," Michonne promised him, deciding to take advantage of the sudden lack of fitting pants in their bedroom.


	61. When You're Expecting

It wasn't until he'd struggled for ten minutes trying to close the trunk of the car that Rick realized he might have got a _tad_ bit overboard.

Aaron, to his credit, did not say anything, choosing instead to stand beside their vehicle, still holding his modest hamper of supplies. Rick flung the door back open, peering inside.

"Maybe we don't need a bassinet and a crib," he considered aloud.

"You could always borrow mine," Aaron pointed out tentatively. "Gracie outgrew it a while ago."

Rick mulled this over. It would be the logical thing to do, obviously. He had not been prone to acting logically since he found out Michonne was pregnant. They had kept it a secret for as long as they were able, until Michonne's swelling belly gave them away. It'd been an endless parade of well-wishing and advice. For Rick, it was also a source of anxiety.

Reluctantly, he began to work one large box out of the car, resigning himself to minimizing a bit. Aaron watched again.

"I bet if we take it out of the box, we can make them both fit," he suggested. "Michonne should be able to pick what she wants, right?"

"That's what I was hoping for," Rick's throat was suddenly tight. He nodded at his partner, swallowing thickly.

They worked in silence, removing both the crib and the bassinet and repacking them carefully and separately in the car. The rest of the boxes they laid across the floor of the vehicle, stacked in like Jenga pieces so tightly that they could scarcely move. Diapers, onesies, binkies, breast pumps, bottles, formula...Rick had scoured the whole of a decrepit shopping center for anything and everything that could have been useful.

Aaron set a basket of toys atop the essentials, staring back thoughtfully at the car. "It's like doing it again for the first time, isn't it?" he asked suddenly, looking at Rick.

"Hmm?" Rick scarcely heard him. He was wondering if Michonne might like more maternity clothes. She seemed content to wear his wardrobe interchangeably with her own, but there might come a time soon where she outgrew him.

"I just figured you might be calmer about this whole thing, you know...since it's not your first-" Aaron cleared his throat, suddenly nervous under Rick's gaze. "I guess though, it's Michonne's first."

"It's not," Rick answered simply.

The silence stretched between them, an ocean of unanswered questions.

"I'm sorry," Aaron settled on this at last. Rick did not respond. Aaron pressed valiantly on. "You know, I think there's room now for more if you think-"

"Maternity clothes," Rick announced.

"Right," Aaron nodded too eagerly. "Let's get them."

In the end, Rick could not see out of the back window on the drive home, but the silver lining to the apocalypse was a general lack of traffic. Night had fallen by the time they returned to Alexandria. Aaron helped Rick unload the car before seizing his own belongings.

"I'm sure Michonne will be delighted," he told Rick, stammering somewhat. With a nod, he moved on, rushing home to Gracie. Rick returned home to his own daughter, sending her sitter off with a smile, happy for alone time with his girl.

He brought the packages in one at a time, stacking them in the living room as though it was Christmas morning. Judith watched, pushing the occasional box around, but far more interested in sifting through the clothing. She pulled a pale blue maternity shirt over her head, wearing it proudly like a dress. No object went untouched by her hands. She continued exploring the baby supplies, a look of wonder on her face.

"You think mama will like it?" he asked Judith.

"Yes!" his daughter shouted her approval back, shaking a package of rattles for good measure.

Rick collapsed on the couch, breathless, exhausted, but pleased with himself.

"Rick?" the front door opened, admitting Michonne in. His wife entered slowly, one hand on her swelling stomach, the other on her sword. "You beat me home," she remarked, pausing to kiss Judith on the head. "What are you wearing, baby girl?"

"It's for you!" Judith announced with panache, doing a twirl. Michonne seemed to notice the state of her living room for the first time.

"What's this?" she asked. "Rick?"

"I'm here," he peeked over a stack of supplies to look at her. Michonne stood wide eyed, torn between shock and amusement.

"I thought you were just getting a few supplies?" she asked on a laugh.

"It started that way," Rick explained sheepishly. "But then I started thinking we don't really have anything for a baby. What we don't use, we can put in the pantry." He stood, walking towards Michonne to help her sit down beside him on the couch. Judith climbed up, situating herself comfortably between them.

"Do I get to choose?" the hint of excitement crept into Michonne's voice. Rick beamed at her.

"As far as I'm concerned, it's all for you, darling." He began pushing coxes gently towards her. Michonne lifted one, a smile on her face.

"I'll need your guy's help," Michonne tugged at Judith's curls gently before grinning over her head at Rick. "What do you think the baby will like?"

Judith launched into mile a minute babbling, talking her way through every article and box Rick had found while her mother listened diligently. Rick, for his part, lounged on the couch, a smile on his face, exhausted in the best way.

From her place by his side, Michonne reached for his hand, laying it on her baby bump. Rick hugged her closer, laying his head on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispered to him.

In answer, Rick kissed her. "Anytime."


	62. Something Else

**A/N: I'm re watching my favorite Richonne moments and got inspired by that Season 3 apology from Rick to Michonne. Have my fluffy little take on what comes next.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

By all rights, she should hate Rick Grimes. He tried to trade her to save his own hide, had yelled at her, glared at her, discounted her from the moment she'd stumbled to his gates.

Of course, he had saved her that first day, had brought her inside, had cleaned her wounds. And no matter how cold his words were, he hadn't driven her away.

And yes, part of her still burned that he considered trading her life for the people in the prison, but his son lived here too. If she would have had the chance to save Andre...she'd have taken it.

And yes, he was broken, grieving, a shell of the man she imagined he'd been before all of this. His people undermined him at every turn, squabbled endlessly, questioned his every decision. He endured it all, took it on the chin, even when it was clear that he could barely hold his head up beneath his grief. Perhaps she recognized this, empathized with this sadness that she knew so intimately.

Perhaps that is why she could not hate Rick, not really, not after it all.

"Michonne," he called to her. It seemed that Rick had found plenty of excuses to say her name lately. She enjoyed the way the syllables twanged against her ears in that accent of his, enjoyed that he was no longer skittish as a fawn with her.

"Rick," she greeted evenly. She was always careful to temper her excitement with him. "What can I do for you?"

He paused, flushed, almost breathless. He wore happiness well, though instances of it seemed few and far between. Still, the energy was almost infectious. "I didn't need nothing," he clarified. "Just wanted to see how you're doing."

"I'm good," she responded, amused. Rick was making an effort and she appreciated it.

"I was wondering…" he paused, suddenly nervous. Michonne bit back a laugh.

"Yes?" she prompted, doing her best to hide her amusement.

"It's a nice day. The horses need some exercise. Would you want to go riding with me?" the question caught her off guard. Rick mistook her surprise for confusion. "I could teach you...if you don't know how-"

"I can ride," she assured him, allowing herself to smile. "If you're lucky, maybe I'll teach you something, old man."

She winked. He blushed beet red. "Maybe you will," he mused. He smiled, looking like he wasn't quite sure how to move his face to accommodate amusement. The result was a lopsided grin that Michonne couldn't find it in herself to hate.

"Race you there," she challenged, feeling like a child, but unable to resist a moment of levity. She took off like a streak, enjoying the whip of the wind in her face, the burn of her lungs, and Rick's shout of surprise behind her.

And when he rose to the challenge, chasing her down, laughing all the way…

She found she couldn't hate that either.


	63. Bathrobe Torture

**A/N: Some Richonne pre-relationship fluff. Michonne tortures Rick with that robe of hers. Enjoy!**

* * *

Rick knew he should probably stop staring at Michonne.

He tried; honestly, he had. She was his roommate, his best friend, his confidant. He'd never fancied himself to be the kind of man who couldn't have a meaningful relationship with a member of the opposite sex just because his hormones had a mind of their own. He was pretty proud of how far he and Michonne had come, truth be told. He'd managed to build trust with her after a long and rough road together, and there wasn't a thing he was willing to do to jeopardize that.

But Lord, if she kept walking around their house like that, he was liable to be in trouble.

"Morning," she smiled around her toothbrush at him, strutting around like it was the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it was. They lived together, raised children together, spent long days and nights in one another's company. She was comfortable, and he was happy for it.

"G'morning," he kept his eyes on her face with studious attention, praying he wasn't turning red. He'd picked the most plain robe he could find when he brought it back to her after a run, skirting the silk and lace options he longed to gift her with and settling instead on baby blue cotton. Michonne, true to form, managed to make it look like high fashion, even in the damn apocalypse.

He did his best not to notice her legs, dark and smooth and shapely, the thighs peeking out from beneath the fabric. He worked even harder to pretend he didn't notice her sudden aversion to bras in the house, the way she bounced around when she went up and down the stairs. It wouldn't take much for a full fledged wardrobe malfunction. Rick wasn't sure whether he was strong enough to survive when it happened. The robe was bad enough and its effects seemed to be spreading. Her tank tops seemed tighter now, and her jeans. It was all he could do not to salivate when he saw her.

"What's the plan today, sheriff?" she teased him, unaware of his internal struggle. "Heading back out there?"

"That's the plan," he smiled at her. She beamed back.

"Good," she walked towards him, swaying dangerously beneath her cloth covering. "I've got a list for you."

"I'll do my best," he told her, trying for nonchalance. In truth, he'd go to Timbuktu if Michonne told him she needed something there.

"Thank you," she said brightly, bending to scoop Judith off the carpeted floor. Rick looked up at the ceiling and not down the gap in her robe, silently calling on God to save him. "I'll see you tonight then?" she asked, apparently none the wiser.

"Sure will," he mustered his control, kissing Judith on the head and doing his best to not give the woman in his bedroom the same treatment.

She walked off with another of her smiles, hips swaying as she bounced his baby on her waist. Rick allowed himself the pleasure of watching her go, indulging the whim just this once.

She caught him, tossing him a look over her shoulder. Rick blushed but Michonne just waved. He could have sworn she threw more of a swivel in her step as she moved towards the stairs, talking animatedly to Judith.

Rick exhaled, the bullet dodged for now. That bathrobe was going to kill him.

But it'd be a helluva way to go.


	64. Thirsty

**A/N: Rick isn't the only one who likesto watch... Season five pre relationship pining. Enjoy!**

* * *

Life was not fair. Michonne was well aware of this. The apocalypse threw the disparities of existence into a glaringly harsh light, and she was no stranger to more than her fair share of bad luck. Trouble was, she couldn't quite distinguish whether this was good luck or bad.

"Michonne," Rick called her name in that clipped, gravelly accent of his. "You all right?"

"Yup," she lied straight through her teeth. It was fortunate that the rain had come, if only to cool the heat that had suddenly burned through her.

"You sure?" he looked skeptical, scowling somewhat beneath layers of thick, wild hair. He'd worn that scowl for the better part of a week now. She couldn't say she totally minded.

"Just thirsty," this at least was true. She'd been parched for days on end, maybe even weeks. Hell, if she was going to start practicing this honestly thing, then she'd might as well admit that she had been thirsty for months.

"Well," he grinned, looking pleased that this was something he could help her with. "We can take care of that." He offered her a thermos, now filled with fresh, clean rainwater.

She shivered, praying that Rick couldn't tell that it was from him and not the weather. Nervous, flushed, and deathly embarrassed, she took the container he offered, drinking deeply. She shut her eyes, needing a reprieve from the onslaught to her senses, but her treacherous mind would give her no rest. The image of Rick, bearded, scowling, and soaking wet, was now burned into her brain. The t-shirt, dark brown and entirely too tight, had been a source of contention already, as had his jeans. And his bow legged walk. And his stupid, curly hair that was more mane than coif these days. And Lord, when he had Judith strapped to his chest, or when he conversed with his son in that low, gentle rumble, she could swear she was liable to melt. But this, Rick drenched and relaxed for the first time in weeks…

"Better?" he asked her. Reluctantly, Michonne entered the real world again, blinking her eyes open. Rick was staring back at her, smirking beneath his bushy beard, his blue eyes glinting. He always watched her like this, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. She longed, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that this world was an easier place, a place where she could give into selfish desire.

"Better," she said out loud, returning the canteen to him. He took a deep draw himself, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Michonne felt her eyes dart down to them, felt herself lick her own before she could regain her self control.

The moment hung between them, charged as a hundred moments had been before. He was looking at her in that way again, the way that made her want to tackle him straight to the ground, the rest of their group be damned. Instead, she kept herself frozen in place.

"We should keep moving," he said at last, shaking droplets from his soaking curls. He offered her one last smile before taking his place again at the head of the group. "You coming?" he called back to her.

Michonne nodded, watching him walk away, commiting the hard curves of his body to memory. One day, she was going to lose her battle to stay objective. She hoped it was soon.

"Right behind you," she told Rick, moving at last to his side.


	65. Towel

**A/N: another one shot you can entirely blame msdoomandgloom and her gorgeous art for. check her out on social media and please enjoy!**

* * *

Michonne's hands made quick work of the towel around Rick's waist, unknotting the terry cloth fabric. It fell with a damp slap to the tiled floor below them. The steam emanating from the shower he'd just taken swirled around them both, clouding the air in the master bathroom of their brand-new house. Droplets of water clinging to him dripped downward, trailing down his tanned skin, erasing the tension of weeks on the road. Michonne ran her hands down his body, cutting a slick path to his waist. He leaned forward to kiss her again, addicted to the taste of her already. She danced backwards, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Rick opened his mouth to protest, to call her back, but she went to her knees in front of him. The only sound that escaped him was a choked groan.

The house was blessedly empty, the rest of the family on a tour of this new town that they were now to call home. Rick still had his misgivings about the whole thing, the _Leave it to Beaver_ aesthetic reminding him too much of Woodbury for comfort. Still, every concern he had fled his mind in one moment when he felt the heat of her mouth on him.

"Michonne," his knees buckled and he fell forward, pressing his palms against the glass door of the shower to avoid collapsing.

Her answer was to moan throatily around him. Her wide brown eyes were trained on his face as she moved, lavishing him in a way he'd often imagined but never dreamed would come true.

"Chonne, shit," the curse words came fast and thick as she gained speed, easing him in and out as though they'd done this thousands of times before. In his mind's eye, they had, but Rick had always kept a tight lid on these fantasies, sure that he didn't deserve this warrior woman currently killing him softly. "You're so beautiful," the praise flowed out of him, things he wanted to tell her the whole time they were on the road, even while they were at the prison. "So gorgeous," he continued. His hands found the thick locs of her hair. He pulled them snuggly into one fist, intent on staring at her. "Wanted you for so long-"

His sentence ended in a groan as Michonne doubled her efforts, spurred on by his praise. Her hands clasped him, pulling him deeper and deeper still. He cursed again, powerless to stop himself from moving against her. The tendrils of a long-forgotten pleasure began to course through him, streaking down his spine in excruciating bolts. With difficulty, he pulled back, gasping.

"Rick?" she questioned him, her voice laced with a lust that was liable to kill him. He guided her to her feet quickly, kissing her roughly until she moaned against him. He disengaged only to pull the thin cotton tank top over her head and work her tight jeans off. He was shaking with desire, desperate to let this woman know how much he wanted her, desperate to make her his.

She came willingly into his arms, lacing her hands in his hair as he lifted her, bracing her against the bathroom counter. He'd pictured their first time hundreds of ways, but one thing always remained consistent.

"Michonne?" he asked her, her skin warm against his mouth as he pressed his lips to her ear. She hummed in response, tugging at his beard.

"Rick?" she echoed him. She was flushed, breathless, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered to her.

"You sure?" he asked. "Cause if we do this, there's no going back." He'd move hell and highwater for this woman, kill for this woman, compromise, push his reservations aside, bring their whole group to a strange town just because she asked him to. But what he was not willing to do was let her go once he had her.

She spread her legs, wrapping them around his waist and locking her feet at the ankles. In seconds, she'd pulled him inside of her, the pair of them crying out as her body welcomed his like he was always meant to be there.

"I'm sure, Rick," she panted, kissing him messily.

It was all the answer he needed. His hands dug into her waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. She clawed at his back with a similar lack of discretion, each leaving their mark. She panted as he moved, thrusting hard enough to rattle the mirror behind her. The pitch of her cries grew in timbre, escalating until it was nothing more than a jumble of curse words, instructions, breathless gasps, and his name. He absorbed it all, committing it to memory, relishing in the feel of her, impossibly hot and snug around him. Needing to feel her fall apart, he worked his hand to where they were joined, rubbing in circles until she flung her head back.

She held him against her, tightening her legs in a vice around him until he too shattered, melting into her until his legs were shaking. They held one another in silence, trading kisses until their breathing regulated.

"I just came in here to put my toothbrush away," Michonne giggled against him shoulder, shaking her head in disbelief. "I think I need a shower now."

Rick chuckled alongside her, leaning up to push her damp locs out of her face. He kissed her twice in quick succession before pausing for a lingering embrace. She sighed against his lips, boneless in his arms. He lifted her again, enjoying her laughter as he moved them into the glass shower. The spray of the water felt amazing, made even more so when Michonne began to rove her hands across his back once more.

This time it was Rick who went to his knees, tossing her leg over his shoulder with a flourish. Michonne's mouth fell open as her body fell back against the tile wall.

"Fuck, Rick," she cursed, sending a thrill through him.

"That's the idea," he muttered against her before thoroughly returning the favor.


	66. Rivals

**A/N: Here's a little fluffy college AU to go along with my story The Plan. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Dodger's Stadium was filled to bursting with college students and alumni, all cheering raucously. The line of demarcation was clear; on one side, a sea of Bruins Blue, on the other, Trojan Red. the city of Los Angeles echoed with the sounds of their chants, taunts, and yells, shaking the stadium down to its foundations. Michonne stood dutifully on her side, shrouded in the colors of UCLA, her locs pulled back beneath a Bruins' ballcap.

The players on both teams were wrapping up their warmups, fully entrenched in the spirit of the day as their fans cheered them on. Michonne looked past the dugout of her own school, her eyes searching for one Trojan in particular.

He found her first, as was his habit, striding across enemy lines as though the whole rivalry was inconsequential. A wave of support from his side carried him across the field, clashing with the jeers from the Bruins. Rick shrugged it all off, enduring the attention as he always did.

His cleats left tracks in the soft red dirt as he walked to the high wall along the first base line. He tilted his head up, eyes searching the roiling crowd until they found hers.

"Hey baby," he jumped, hanging off the wall while he faced her.

Michonne grinned, leaning over the banister to get closer to him. "You're going to give the people over here a heart attack," she teased.

Rick kept his eyes on hers, a familiar mischievous grin spreading over his face. "They'll have to deal with it. I can't play without my good luck charm."

Michonne rolled her eyes even as her affection for him skyrocketed. "Fair enough," she conceded. She closed the distance of the few inches between them, kissing Rick soundly.

The stadium around them exploded in sound as their kiss went live on the jumbotron above them. Rick disregarded their audience, laying one on her that he normally would not have dared in public. They were both flushed when he pulled away.

"Go easy on us, ok?" she whispered to her fiance, kissing him on the cheek for good measure.

"No promises," he smirked, letting go of the wall. He waved at her as he strode back over to his side just in time for the game to begin.

As usual, Rick went easy on no one, handily leading the Trojans to a victory over the Bruins. Michonne did her best to look disappointed with the rest of her friends, taking their teasing and taunting on the chin as they accused her of sleeping with the enemy. She headed downstairs to the locker rooms, stealing inside once the rest of the players had cleared out. Rick was waiting for her, freshly showered.

"Might want to take that off now," he teased, gesturing to her Bruins' jersey.

Michonne laughed, undoing the buttons one at a time until she could shrug the shirt over and off her arms.

"Better?" she asked, waiting for his appraisal.

Rick nodded, reaching for her. "I like you much better in red," he informed her.

Michonne looked down at her outfit, laughing. "I think you just like me in _your_ number," she pointed out.

Rick traced the large number 41 on her Trojans' t-shirt, his grin widening. "Yeah, I like that too," he drawled lazily. He kissed her again, deeper this time, hands wandering now that they were alone. By the time he pulled back she was breathless.

"Did I bring you good luck for your last college game?" Michonne asked, lacing her arms around his neck.

"Like a charm," he confirmed, pulling her back in to celebrate.


	67. Spring

**A/N: Written after courtgirl26 sent me a request for some family fluff. Takes place in a kinder universe on a warm spring day. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

She'd been laying like this for upwards of an hour, unwilling or unable to move. The breeze stirred the grass around her, bringing the scent of the flowering trees. Michonne breathed deep, stretching, rubbing her bare feet against the soft emerald blades of grass.

"Mama!"

She heard her family before she saw them, the voice of her youngest betraying them. Michonne fluttered her eyes open, glancing above her head. The vision of her husband walking towards her with his bowlegged gait, their daughter tucked beneath his arm, drew a smile at once. That grin grew wider at the sight of their sons traipsing alongside him.

"Hey Judes," she crooned as Rick lowered their daughter to the blanket beside her. He'd managed to tame her hair into two presentable plaits. Judith had affixed dandelions into it and was now smiling brilliantly at her.

"Hey mom," Carl dropped down beside her, all long lanky limbs. Without preamble, he laid backwards, tilting his father's old hat over his face.

"Hey mama," Andre paused to kiss her cheek before he too took his place on the blanket, patting Judith on the back as she immediately decided to use him as a pillow.

"Move," Rick instructed their eldest son in his deep drawl. Carl grumbled but did as he was told.

"Did you have a good day?" Michonne asked as her husband settled down next to her.

He kissed her gently, laying his head down, his hand reaching at once for her protruding belly. The baby inside of her responded, fluttering at his father's touch.

"Yup," he grinned. "But it's better now." He laid back to enjoy the sunshine along with her.

Saturday afternoon slipped by, but the Grimes family didn't much mind.


	68. In Your Corner

**A/N: A little one shot for my hopeless romantics. Maybe I'll redo all the points where Rick should have made his move, but for now, enjoy this lovey dovey fluff!**

* * *

In his few decades on Earth, Rick had done many things for which he was ashamed. The guilt of these deeds haunted him, interrupted his sleep, colored his choices. He coped by listing the reasons for his actions in his mind. Some sacrifices had to be made, and he would happily make them for those he loved. He could lose himself for his son, for his daughter, for the ragtag family that followed him. He told himself this as they went about their plan, repeated it often when the misgivings crept in.

Now, he couldn't remember his reasoning for the life of him. His mind was filled with Michonne's reproachful dark eyes, with the way she looked at him when she was disappointed in him. Each throb of his head drummed in the reality of his actions. He had lied to her. He was still lying to her. She knew it. He'd maintained for another few hours before crumbling beneath the weight. She came to him and the truth came tumbling out. With it came a sense of relief that Rick did not expect.

"You thought I'd stop you?" Michonne's measured response caught him off guard.

"Well," he searched for a way to phrase his feelings, to tell her that she was his guiding light in the darkness of this apocalypse. "You _did_ hit me over the head," he said. Even so, he offered her his gun. She did not take it.

"That was for you, not them," she responded quickly, eyes boring into him, willing him to understand.

"I was afraid you'd talk me out of it." It appeared that the truth was eager to emerge now that he'd begun. "You could've." He had half-hoped that she would. He'd come here for Michonne. There was nothing he would deny her, if only she'd ask. He offered her the gun again.

Her expression softened as it often did when she looked at him this way. It always threatened to send him to his knees, to have him begging at her feet. His mouth ran dry, his focus shifting to the way her lips moved as she formed her words, the smoothness of her skin, the way her locs framed her face when they were loose like this.

"You can find a way," she told him, all reckless confidence. " _We_ can find away."

His heart stuttered, disbelieving. Michonne continued, undaunted.

"And even if we don't," she stepped towards him, "I'm still with you." She pressed his hand closed again around the stolen weapon, pushing it gently back into his possession. "Just don't make something happen," she smiled, as though the whole thing was nothing more than an inconvenience.

He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, could feel his body going slack. "Michonne," his voice croaked around her name. Frantically he searched for words, envious of her ability to so seamlessly express herself. It was because of her diplomacy that they hadn't been kicked straight out back onto the road. The magnitude of what he'd nearly stolen from her, what she was willing to lose for him hit him like a ton of bricks. He inhaled sharply, attempting and failing to reign in the torrent of emotion.

"It's going to be ok," Michonne soothed. Her thumb moved up to his wrist, rubbing a pattern into the skin. "We'll make it ok," she promised.

He believed her. Slowly, he nodded, still shaking. Michonne stepped closer to him, running her hands up his arms.

"Are you alright?" she asked simply.

The question undid him completely. Rick shook his head. He set the gun aside, suddenly needing a moment without it. He had never hugged her before, not in nearly a year in her presence, somehow sure that it would be his undoing. He found he could not care less at the moment. She opened her arms, accepting his embrace, holding him. He pressed close to her, uncaring for decorum, thrilling at the feel of her, strong and warm against him.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear, turning his face against hers. "Thank you, Michonne."

She said nothing, only tightened her grip. He marveled at the strength humming beneath her ebon skin. Her hair was unbearably soft, the locs rubbing his cheek as he moved closer to her still. Her heart was pressed against his chest, the smell of her coconut soap clouding his mind. Rick wondered when the last time he'd felt this sensation had been, this terrifying, delightful dizziness. It was familiar and foreign all at once, a wave of realization crashing over him, made apparent by the unfalliable presence of one incredible woman.

'Michonne," he called her name again, this time in a steady, calm voice.

She shifted, attempting to put space between them. Rick held her fast, watching her face for any sign of reluctance. "Are you ready to go out there?" she asked quietly. "I can give you a few minutes if you need them."

He shook his head. Rick didn't need a few minutes, not anymore. "Stay with me," he requested, still holding her.

She was trembling now, her eyes searching his face wildly. "Alright," she agreed.

Rick leaned forward towards her, inching in as quickly as he dared. Michonne craned up onto the balls of her feet. An eternity stretched between them, then suddenly his mouth was on hers and the world fell away. There was no tentativeness, no hesitation. The culmination of a thousand longing glances, hundreds of hushed conversations, and dozens of playful touches flared between them into an inferno.

She held his face, her fingers hooked into his hair, as though she were afraid he might back away from her. In response, Rick jerked her body closer to his, looping his arms around her waist and squeezing until she was sure he wasn't going anywhere. He forgot Alexandria, forgot the guns, forgot his fears. There was only Michonne, the taste of her lips, the pitch of her gasps, the feel of her tugging and grasping at him.

He backed her up until they were against the door, ignoring the sting as his bruised knuckles scraped against the hardwood. Reluctantly, he released her, fumbling behind her for the lock. It echoed hollowly in the house as he threw it. Michonne broke their kiss to stare up at him, the question swirling in her eyes. He kissed her again, slowly, gently, pressing promises into her lips.

"How'd I get so lucky, finding you?" he whispered in awe.

Michonne's whole body shuddered, goosebumps racing up her smooth skin. With a gasp, she seized him, pushing him backwards towards the bed. He fell upon it willingly, tugging her with him. In no time, he'd wrinkled both of their clothing in his mad dash to strip the fabric from them. Michonne aided him, tugging off her skin-tight pants before coming for his own worn jeans.

"It's me who's lucky," she leaned forward, pressing her bare chest to his as she whispered.

She was wrong, but Rick had no mind to tell her otherwise. Instead, he seized her, rolling her beneath him. For a moment, he lamented their lack of time, wishing for unhurried hours where he could prove himself, where he could pay her back for every vote of confidence, every act of kindness. Just now, both of their bodies were desperate for the other, heat pulsing beneath their skin.

She drew him against her and Rick thrust forward, his cries harmonizing with hers as he entered her at last. His name fell from her lips on a keening gasp. Rick watched her, overcome as she tossed her head back, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. He kissed them away, stroking her face before reaching for her hands. He laced their fingers together, raising them above her head, He leaned his forehead against hers, barely aware of the tears cutting down his own face.

"Michonne," he said her name reverently. "Are you with me?" He'd stop in a second if she wasn't ready.

She arched her back, rolling into him as she leaned up to kiss him. "Always," she promised against his lips.

"Always," he echoed, moving at last.


	69. Clean Up Crew

**A/N: I'm still in my feelings, and still writing fluff. This one's for msdoomandgloom for always encouraging me to just write it.**

 **I hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

"Have you eaten? Are you hungry?" Rick peered up at her, all earnest concern. Michonne held in her laugh, shaking her head instead.

"I'm fine," she reiterated. She'd been inside this house with him for all of five minutes and he must have asked her a dozen questions already. Carl too followed her like a shadow, dogging her steps like a duckling after his mother. She turned, stroking his hair, smiling down at the boy who'd worked his way into her heart.

"Are you sure?" Father and son asked in unison. Michonne did laugh this time.

"I'm sure," she promised. She wanted a bath, she wanted a meal, but more than that, she wanted a moment to simply absorb this. Carl was safe. Rick, though beaten and bruised and still bloody, was alive. They were together. "I'll be right back," she told them both, bending to kiss Carl's head. "Wait here, ok?"

Two pairs of blue eyes watched her as she left. She moved as quickly as she was able, wandering the house from room to room, gathering supplies. She returned within minutes, arms full, finding the two where she'd left them on the couch. They both ceased their whispering and snapped to attention when she came in.

"Ok," she began in her best business-like tone. "Carl," she started with the youngest. "You take this and go use the bathroom upstairs." She brandished a toothbrush, still wrapped.

"Why?" he blinked in surprise.

"I saw that empty can of pudding outside," she said. "You want to tell me a walker did that?" Michonne tilted her head at him.

"No," Carl's cheeks colored but he grinned. Sheepishly, he stood up, accepting the package from her. "What about Dad?" he asked, a familiar conspirator's smile spreading across his face.

They both turned to the man in question, still blood-spattered and worse for the wear. He blinked back at them, looking amused.

"Don't worry," Michonne assured Carl. "I'll take care of dad." With a nod of her head, she sent Carl on his way.

Rick offered no protest as she led him into the downstairs bathroom. He sat docile on the side of the tub as she went to work. Her fingers worried at him, searching for cuts and gashes in need of stitches. He winced when she hit tender spots, but did not complain.

"I can't believe you're here," Rick spoke at last as she removed what remained of his tattered clothing.

She knelt in front of him, coming eye to eye. Smiling, she set about wiping away the dried blood and filth with a wet towel. "I'm glad I found you," she said simply. In truth, her heart was full to bursting, but she was not sure now was the time to address it.

"You don't have to do this," Rick said, even as his body slumped forward. He leaned against her as she wiped away the evidence of his fight with the Governor. Michonne worked diligently, her hands pressing against Rick's cool skin.

"I know I don't," she acknowledged.

Against her, Rick nodded, his hair tickling her skin. She could see the bruises around the back of his neck, long and thin and wicked. She swallowed thickly. Carefully, she ran her towel over them, rubbing the tension away. Rick exhaled heavily. His arms came up slowly, not quite holding her, but caging her in, as though he was afraid she might move away from him.

"I got you," she soothed.

"I know," his breath was warm against her shoulder. He moved his arms closer to her. Michonne bent down, kissing Rick on the crown of his head.

"We'll get you cleaned up," she said, "and rest, just for a bit."

"And then?" Rick asked, tilting his face sideways to look at her.

"Then…" Michonne drew his face up wiping it until it was clean. "We'll figure it out."

"Ok," Rick agreed softly. He laid his head back down again, reclining against her as she finished her work in comfortable silence.

Carl was waiting for them on the couch when they returned. Michonne was glad to see that he'd washed his face and hair and changed his clothing. She gave him an encouraging smile as she helped Rick back to the cushions. Rick flopped down, smiling up at her along with his son.

"We're all clean. What now?" Carl asked eagerly, scooting aside so that Michonne could take her place between him and his father.

Michonne wrapped her arm around the boy's shoulders, drawing him to her side. Carl cozied up to her in an instance. "Now," she said simply, "I want a nap."

"Sounds good," Carl was slumping over already, curling like a cat in her lap. Within minutes, he was fast asleep, his warm breath ruffling the overly large men's shirt she'd found in a drawer upstairs.

"He missed you," Rick whispered. He scooted closer to her, wincing just the slightest. Slowly, he wound his arm around her waist, his eyes fixed on her face. "We both did." Rick pressed his lips against her cheek.

Her whole body jolted at the intimate gesture, something long hidden rising to the surface. She reached for his hand around her, lacing their fingers.

"I'm here," she said, laying her head on Rick's as he slumped against her.

"I know," he repeated, falling asleep as quickly as Carl had.

Michonne drifted off between them, warm, content, and finally at home.


	70. Sharing

Rick had spent a decade and a half sharing a bed more or less with only one person. In highschool, the luxury of long nights together was quite impossible. So they had married young, bought a house with a spare bedroom. Lori had watched, laughing, sipping a beer as Rick struggled to assemble their bed frame. They'd spent a week on a mattress on the floor before he'd finally managed it. They remained side by side for the better part of ten years but slowly, almost imperceptibly, space grew between them. Sometimes he came home late and night, and not wishing to wake her, fell asleep on the couch. On hot Georgia nights, they left a gap between them, windows flung open to coax in a breeze, filling the space growing there. He slept on the floor once, after a particularly bad fight, not wanting to be beside her but not wanting to upset their son by retreating to the living room.

In the end, they hadn't slept in the same place at all. In the end, he hadn't been there when Judith came into the world. He hadn't held her hand as she died. He hadn't ensured that she would not return to this world a monster. Carl had borne that burden. It was a debt that Rick could never repay him.

Life became a rotation of empty beds. His cot in the prison was cold, but not nearly as much as the nooks they found while on the road, the dilapidated barns, the empty churches. Rick learned a new sort of loneliness, the kind that came even when he was surrounded by people, even when they looked to him for guidance and instruction. It was bone-achingly deep, a chronic pain, as acute as living with an injury.

All the while, she had come closer to him, inching in. Soon, she was by his side during the day, cuddling his children, sheltering them. Soon, she sat up with him at night, not quite awake, not quite asleep, simply there. It was she who walked in step with him along the road, she who ensured he kept moving forward. It was she who supported him, comforted him, challenged him.

Michonne. He'd been in love with her long before either of them realized it. Things ran backwards for them, a long winding road. They were a family long before they were a couple, partners long before they were a pair. And now, after months, after hurdles, and deaths, and challenges, Rick shared his bed once more.

The weather did not much matter, the circumstances did not much matter. Whether they were on a forest floor, the back of a van, or the bed in their room, they slept entangled against one another, all limbs and hands and warm skin. Time seemed to bring them only closer. Even on nights where they were too tired for intimacy, too tired to do anything but sleep, Michonne laid on his chest, or he draped himself over her, holding tight, tethered together against all the odds.

They fought, certainly, arguing as always they had. Some days she was furious with him, disappointed at times, irritated at others. Sometimes she struck a nerve, challenged him past his comfort zone. But always, always, they found their way into one another's arms. Even their worst days were better than all the days without her.

She was standing by their bed now, tugging at the sheets, arranging the pillows in the way she liked. Candles flickered around her, throwing shadows along the wall as she moved, humming quietly to herself. Rick watched from the doorway, deliriously happy.

"You just going to stare?" she asked, looking up at him through the curtain of her hair. "Or are you going to come over here and join me?"

He walked towards her, the way he had for years now. Michonne grinned, pulling back the blankets. She climbed in, looking up at him expectantly. Rick joined her, wrapping her in his arms, pulling her to his chest.

"I love you," he murmured, kissing her head. Michonne settled against him.

"I love you too, old man," she tugged at his beard.

She fell asleep, her head in the crook of his shoulder, her hand over his heart. Rick slept soundly beneath her.


	71. Mother's Day

"Shh, shh, shh," Rick hushed the group around him, attempting to steer them up the stairs in an orderly manner.

"We got it," Carl whispered loudly, adjusting the tray in his arms. The eggs, over easy, slid precariously close to the berries stacked high atop the ceramic plate.

Judith bounced on the balls of her feet, sloshing orange juice around in the glass. Rick was suddenly happy that he saved the champagne for later.

Andre stilled her with a hand to her shoulder, clutching the bouquet of sunflowers from their garden. "Ready?" He asked his father, looking up at him.

"Ready," Rick confirmed. He shifted RJ to his other arm, reaching for the bedroom door.

"Happy Mother's Day!" The cry was likely to shatter glass as the whole squad of children burst in, hurtling towards their mom.

Rick grinned at Michonne as she stretched dramatically, pretending to wake. "Oh my goodness," she cooed, smiling as her children hit the bed one at a time. "What's all this?"

Judith happily and loudly explained the menu while Carl and Dre set the flowers up on the bedside table. RJ squirmed until Rick set him down on his mother's chest.

"Did we surprise you?" Dre asked brightly.

Michonne stroked his hair, kissing each of her children on the head in turn.

"I'm very surprised," she confirmed as Carl began to steal food from her plate.

Rick sat beside her, shooing the kids away from their mother's breakfast. They retreated further down the mattress, chatting animatedly. Judith picked up RJ, cradling her youngest brother as Dre and Carl flipped through the channels of the bedroom television.

"I'll give you your gift later," Rick whispered in his wife's ear.

She grinned at him, hair disheveled, barefaced and heart achingly beautiful.

"Thank you," she announced to her family. A chorus of "your welcomes" and "Happy Mother's Day" echoed back to her.

"Happy Mother's Day, Chonne," Rick kissed her, enjoying the way she giggled.


	72. Yours and Mine

Strong. Even before the turn, that's what they called her. Michonne had spent what felt like a thousand lifetimes being strong.

Life was a test of endurance, never-ending hurdles, hard knocks that she took on the chin. All the while, she moved forward, dusted herself off, wiped away her tears. All the while, the hits kept coming.

The stoicism became a mask, her smiles armor, even as a seemingly endless onslaught of trauma threatened to break her heart. This world was no place for weakness, no place to be soft. The strong survived. Michonne was a survivor.

As it turned out, so was Rick.

Surviving was easier in pairs. Strength became a shared skill, a burden that one or the other would shoulder at a time. And though life was not easier, not really, it became about more than survival.

There was room for softness now, for gentle grins and quiet laughs, for comforting touches and acts of kindness. Strength evolved, sharpened, hardened into something new, bolstered by vulnerability, by the unexpected softness found in another.

"He's kicking," Michonne whispered. She sat up against the headboard in their bedroom. The house was quiet, still and safe.

Rick became alert at once, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he moved towards her in the dark. "Now?" He asked eagerly.

She took his hands, calloused and rough though they were, and pressed them against the rounded contours of her belly. "Do you feel him?"

Michonne could feel his smile, the joy radiating off of him as he held her close. "Feels like we've got a fighter," Rick spoke against her temple, his palms pressing against her. From inside her womb, their son pressed back.

"What else could he be?" Michonne leaned against her husband.

Rick pulled her closer still. "He's ours," he whispered almost in awe.

RJ kicked twice, affirming his father's declaration. Michonne laughed.

"Yours and mine," she stroked Rick's hair as he bent to murmur calming words to her tummy, their new nightly ritual. Michonne slumped against him, exhausted.

"I'll see you soon, son," Rick kissed her baby bump. "But you gotta let your mama sleep. She needs her strength."

RJ settled down, soothed perhaps by the voice of the father he had not yet met. Michonne laid back down, cosseted by her husband's arms.

In the dark, Rick held them both.


	73. Burning

**A/N: You can thank/blame andyclutterbuck and msdoomandgloom for this one. The first for amazing gif sets and hilarious tags, and the second one for encouraging me always in these moments of recklessness. Check them both out on Tumblr.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Michonne just needed a moment-a single, solitary second- to catch her breath. Her body was on fire, an inferno of sensation raging just beneath her skin. She drew heaving, desperate gasps of air, feeling somehow as though she were drowning, as though the pleasure might simply kill her. Her lover showed no mercy in his onslaught. Calloused, rough hands pinned her to the bed, holding her still against the mattress. She squirmed, attempting to put a modicum of space between them, seeking temporary relief. Rick allowed no such thing. He pressed harder as she sought to escape, drawing her legs further apart and diving deeper.

"Rick," her voice was hoarse, gasping, "baby, please…"

Blue eyes flicked up to her face from his place between her thighs, sparkling with a look she knew well. He slid his hands beneath her, gasping great handfuls of her ass and pulled her closer still.

She cried out, a broken sound, needy and pleading. "Rick," his name fell from her lips like a mantra. "Rick, please... oh God." She reached for him, searching for curls that had long since been shorn short. Without a handhold, she clutched at the sheets again, muscles burning. She tried to pull her legs up, but only succeeded in opening herself wider to his attentions.

"Mmmm," he hummed, enjoying her salaciously as she threw her head back, tears springing to her eyes. The world went white at once, her vision blurring, a buzz filling her ears, her body shaking and falling apart in great waves of pleasure. It was seconds before she realized she was screaming, panting, pleading like some wanton thing.

Her husband sat up, looking far too pleased with himself. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, beard glistening, and smiled at her.

"You need a minute, darling?" the question was chivalrous, sweet, and downright devastating in the wake of what he had just done.

Michonne remained a boneless pile atop their bed, unable to open her mouth to utter so much as syllable.

"I'll be right back," he kissed just below her bellybutton with a smirk. The mattress swayed as he lifted himself from it, strutting to the basin in the corner of their bedroom.

In the low light of the candles around them, Michonne could make out his form, the silhouette of his body, bowlegged, muscled, and wickedly irresistible. She drank it in thirstily, the heat returning to her, spreading from the tips of her toes all the way up. He splashed about in the basin, sloshing water around. For a moment, she was tempted to join him, to cool the passion he stoked in her day after day. Rick caught her eyes in the mirror, his cobalt gaze burning into her, daring her to deny him.

"Rick," she called to him again, still breathless, no longer caring.

"Yeah Chonne?" he answered, drying his face and hands as he turned to her.

"You're not done yet," she did nothing to disguise her need, eyeing him hungrily until his body flushed crimson beneath her gaze. "Get back over here." She crooked her finger at him.

He returned on long, fast strides, climbing into bed and atop her again. "You ready for me, darling?" he teased.

Michonne locked her legs around his slender waist, flipping him over and beneath her. This time it was him who cried out as she sunk down on him, accepting every inch of him in one sinfully tight fit.

"Are you?" she questioned, leaning over him to begin bouncing with fervor.

Rick could not find the words to answer, only moaning as his fingers dug into her hips.


	74. Laundromat

The laundromat was the same as always. Machines stacked in orderly rows, rumbling away against dingy white walls. The stark fluorescent lighting did nothing to soften the effects of chipping linoleum tile, the smell of dried laundry detergent, and the vibration of previously filthy tennis shoes bouncing around in the metal drum of a washing machine.

Michonne sat in a plastic chair, facing the machine she'd chosen. The hard surface beneath her was unforgiving, pressing into the back of her bare thighs. She knew it would leave imprints on her legs when she eventually stood. There were few other options for seating, unless she wanted to prop herself up on a dryer or curl up in one of the wire carts lined up along the wall for laundry. It was too hot to do much more than sit anyhow. The sweltering Georgia sun was beating down already, the humidity suffocating in the early hours of the morning. Her dark skin was dewey, her long locs pulled into a sloppy bun atop her head in an attempt to keep cool.

There was only one other person inside, an older woman, tall and statuesque. Jackie ran her business with quiet efficiency, keeping the place spotless. In the mornings she could be found behind the counter, sipping her ice tea as she did her numbers. She always greeted Michonne with a familiar nod in these early morning hours before settling into a comfortable silence. Michonne was liberal in her treatment of her laundry, dumping it all in at once with Tide Cold Water. She ran two loads in side-by-side machines, zoning out to the rhythm the washers drummed out as they worked.

The bell rang, heralding in another early bird. Michonne crooked her head just the slightest, looking towards the door. She saw his reflection in the glass before she saw the man himself. He was outfitted in an unflattering khaki ensemble that was instantly recognizable as a sheriff's uniform. Michonne tensed at just the sight, her eyes flickering over his badge, his gun belt, his chunky black boots. He even had a hat, plain brown, wide-brimmed, and almost comically unfashionable. He came in, loud in the otherwise quiet environment, disrupting the symphony of sound that made up Michonne's Saturday mornings.

Heavy boots clicked over cheap tile. The sheriff grunted just the slightest as he hauled along two baskets of laundry filled to brimming. With a heavy sigh, he set them down at the machines the row up from her. Noisily, he opened two washer doors, tossing clothes in left and right, colors in one, whites in the other. Michonne stared for lack of anything else to watch. He looked...tired. Perhaps the laundromat was not a place known for high fashion, but she was used to cops looking more polished. His uniform was rumpled, as though he'd been wearing it for hours. The tan fabric was darker in some places, clinging to its wearer. There was dirt on the pants and his boots. She wondered where he'd been working, whether he'd chased someone down, or perhaps inspected a crime scene.

Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, he'd been up to _something_. He was worse for the wear for certain. He sighed again, removing the hat and tossing it atop the washer nearest to him. His hair, a mop of dark chestnut spirals, was mussed, curling above his ears and the nape of his neck. Stubble was coming in heavily along his jaw, dusting a small cleft in his chin. It wasn't a bad face, all things considered. His features were somewhat unique; a strong nose cut down the center, resting above lips that were fuller than they had any right to be.

He wiped his forehead, dumping soap into both machines before glancing at his uniform. He worked the buttons out of their holes one by one, shrugging the tight fitting button down off. His white t-shirt below left little to the imagination. Michonne found herself staring in earnest now, His arms were tan from the summer sun, streaked with a pale stripe where his uniform sleeve ended. He removed his badge, tucking it into his pocket before shaking his shirt out. His arms were muscled, not heavily, but corded nonetheless. She wondered vaguely if the rest of him matched.

The alarm on her machine went off with a sudden, sharp buzz, echoing through the whole of the building and startling her out of her reverie. Sharp blue eyes turned to her at once and found her still in the midst of staring. Her cheeks burned, but she offered him a small, embarrassed smile before diving for her clothing. She wrenched the door open, seizing her damp clothes. When she straightened up, he was already sitting, his face buried against one hand, presumably asleep.

He remained that way as she finished her dryer cycle, waking only to move his clothing over before sitting again. He was asleep as she left, her clean and folded clothing in tow. She looked forward to the possibility of seeing him again, but the next weekend she had no such luck. It would be two Saturdays without another sighting of the sleepy and sexy sheriff.

On week three, he beat her to the laundromat. He was well into a wash cycle when Michonne arrived, moving towards her customary place in the left hand side of the middle row. The sheriff was seated, this time reading from his laptop. He glanced up at her over the screen, his cobalt eyes finding her.

"Good morning," his accent was thick, even by Atlanta standards.

"Morning," she offered him a smile, dragging her hamper past him. He stood, setting his computer to the side, and reached for her laundry basket instead.

"Where's this going?" he asked brightly, wide-awake today.

"Um," Michonne stammered, taken aback to see him so close up. He was not nearly so disheveled as a few weeks prior. "Not far," she managed, choking a bit.

"Here?" he set it a few machines down from him, far from her usual spot.

"Here's fine," Michonne forced herself to focus on her laundry and not the smell of his cologne or the way he licked his lips from time to time as he read on that computer of his. She could make out his badge from here. Sheriff Rick Grimes. It was a cowboy name, but it suited him. When he stood, she noticed he was bowlegged, a strangely endearing trait. She did her best to not stare at him as he went about his chores. As he bent over to fish some clothing out of the bottom of the washer, Michonne noticed Jackie. The owner had stopped her work and was now watching Michonne watch Rick, a knowing expression on her face. Jackie raised an accusatory brow at the younger woman.

Michonne quickly checked herself, fishing her notebook out instead and focusing on anything but the sexy sheriff washing his unmentionables.

She greeted him the following week, when she sat in her new spot two washing machines away. He grinned at her tiredly, exhausted once more.

"Sorry," he offered through a yawn. "I work graveyard shift."

She nodded her understanding. "Do you do laundry straight after?"

He chuckled wryly, "It's the only time I have to do it. The kids are out, so I do laundry when they don't need me." He gestured to one of his baskets, filled with miniature t-shirts and shorts.

"Kids?" she had no right to ask but she was deathly curious. His left hand was bare, no wedding ring-or even tan line- in sight.

"Two," he confirmed. "Boy and a girl. Their mom has them on weekends. Sunday I have to sleep, so Saturday-"

"You do laundry," she finished for him.

"That I do," he confirmed, smiling at her again.

"I'm Michonne," she offered her hand. He took it. His palm was warm, calloused and rough, though he did his best not to crush her own. Michonne felt an absurd urge to pull him towards her, but curbed the impulse.

"Rick," he said. "But you already knew that." He didn't look like the thought upset him in the slightest.

"The badge kind of gave it away," she said simply.

Rick glanced down at his uniform. "Oh yeah," he chuckled, a raspy, rolling sound. "Guess it does." He tugged at the fabric. "Better wash it," he said, turning his back to her as he worked it off in full sight once more.

His back was just as lovely as his arms were, flexing beneath the pale cotton t-shirt. Michonne swallowed thickly, forcing herself to focus on folding her clothes.

The next weekend he was back, sans uniform, in a black t-shirt. It was perhaps a size too small, but Michonne wasn't about to fix her lips to complain.

"Morning Michonne," he greeted, grinning at her. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, held in place with a pair of aviator sunglasses.

"Morning, Rick," she responded. This time, she took the machine right next to his. "No work today?" she adjusted her denim shorts, tugging the fabric down. Rick's eyes dropped to her legs, lingering just a beat too long.

"Just got home in time to take a shower," he explained, grinning again.

"A cold one, I hope," Michonne wiped a bead of sweat, "It's hot as hell out there."

Rick laughed. He reached down for a cup at his feet. "Want some?" he offered. "Iced coffee. I ain't drank any yet. You're welcome to it."

"I don't want to steal your drink," she protested.

He only grinned wider. "Ain't stealing if I give it to you," he pressed the cup into her hands. "Go ahead," he urged.

Michonne took a sip. The cool liquid rushed over her tongue, sweetened with cream and sugar. A small, pleasured sigh escaped her mouth. Rick flushed, but his eyes remained on her. "Thank you," she exhaled, handing it back, feeling hotter than ever.

"No problem," his voice was tight, his eyes on her as he too took a sip. Michonne's body flushed to the tip of her toes.

"So," she ventured. "Tell me about yourself, Rick."

He was a good conversationalist when he was well-rested, witty and affable. Michonne enjoyed the deep cadence of his voice, finding the melody as soothing as the ever-present whir of the machines around him. He told her about routine traffic stops, about his kids, about growing up in a podunk town just outside of Atlanta. She told him about the West Coast, about being a beach bunny, her time in law school, dropping out, the art she did now. He asked to see it and she shyly trotted out her tablet. He complimented every piece in a loud, amazed voice. She was pleased though she couldn't express it properly.

"What do you do?" she asked. "You know, when you aren't sheriffing?"

He laughed, shaking his head, eyes crinkling with mirth. "Not much these days. Learning to be a single dad." He shrugged. "Parts of it are the same as they've always been. Parts of it are hard."

"Their mother…" she ventured.

"Remarried," he answered. He didn't seem upset, just tired. "She takes the kids when I'm here."

"And you're ok with that?" she hedged.

"I gotta do laundry sometime," he smiled at her. "What about you?"

"Not divorced," she answered. Her locs fell into her face as she looked at her hands in her own lap.

"Single?" he asked.

"Yes." she paused. "It's new."

He digested this. "Good?"

There was another pause. "Yes," she decided. "What about you?" she asked.

"Single?" He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. And it's definitely a good thing." He smiled at her.

Michonne smiled back.

On the sixth week, she brought him coffee. The iced beverage was sweating already in the humidity, dripping in her hand as she sat in her chair waiting. An hour passed, then two, until her clothing was done and there was still no sign of him. The tendrils of worry clutched at her. Michonne found herself thumbing through the news on her phone, searching for whether something had happened nearby. Somewhere, a phone rang in the background. Michonne barely was aware of it until Jackie got her attention.

"That sheriff of yours called," Jackie announced from the counter, intelligent dark eyes on Michonne. "Said a case ran late. Said he's sorry. Says he'll see you next week."

Michonne's cheeks burned. "He called to say all that?"

"Mmm hmm," Jackie rose an eyebrow. "Might want to just give that man your number. I don't want him tying up my line."

"Right," Michonne swallowed, hiding her smile as she bent down to remove her laundry from the dryer. "Thanks for telling me."

"Mmm," Jackie only murmured, returning to her checkbook and her tea.

On the following week, Michonne sheepishly offered Rick her phone number. "Just in case," she said, hazarding a smile.

He was right beside her, folding his clothing, separating things into orderly piles. He paused to reach into his pocket and fish out his phone. He handed it to her without preamble. "Mind putting it in?" he asked. "My son says I'm like a grandpa when it comes to technology."

Michonne giggled, noticing the picture of Rick and his children set to his background photo. They both looked like him, especially the boy, all bright eyed and wide smiles. "They're cute," she complimented, programming her number in.

"Thanks," he grinned. "You'll have to come meet them one day."

"All right," he face burned again, especially when his eyes remained on her. She made to hand his phone back to him, but ended up knocking a basket filled with her clean clothing to the floor. Embarrassed, she dove for it. Rick bent down at once to help her.

"Good thing you ain't folded them yet," he remarked easily, scooping her shirts and shorts back in. He made to shake out one of her work blouses before placing it in. To her horror, a red thong clinging to the staticy silk fell straight across Rick's lap.

Time froze as he stated at it, flabbergasted. Michonne yearned to snatch it back, but the look on his face gave her pause. He was staring at that scrap of crimson fabric, the wheels in his head clearly turning. His mouth fell open and he took a heavy breath.

"Sorry," she inhaled sharply, reaching for her panties.

"Don't be." His fingers flexed as though he wanted to hand it to her, but thought better of it. Instead, he moved his leg towards her, shuttling her underwear back towards her basket. Michonne clutched it, the tips of her fingers brushing his jean covered leg. She snatched it back, chuckling to herself.

"It had to be my panties," she attempted to joke, tucking them out of sight.

Rick grinned. "At least they're a nice color," he complimented. His eyes found her again, the thoughts tumbling behind them thinly veiled.

Michonne felt herself wet her own lips, her eyes dropping to his mouth. The space between them grew unbearably hot. She leaned towards him unconsciously, determined to stand back on her feet, to put space between them. Rick had other ideas. His hand found her bare knee, touching softly at first, then with more pressure when she did not move back. Michonne gasped, seeking him out, scooting closer to him. Without another word, he closed the scant space, crushing his mouth to hers.

He tasted of mint, cool and crisp. His lips were firm, insistent as he pulled her closer to him. Michonne fell forward, enjoying the play of his hands along her legs, his hold around her waist as he sought to take her apart. She parted her lips for him on a gasp, slanting her face to allow him deeper access.

With a sound almost like a grunt, he went to his knees in front of her, hauling her over the laundry basket between them. Impatiently, he pushed it aside, dragging Michonne into the area it had just occupied. Her thighs burned from squatting, and her body broke into a sweat but she found she could scarcely care. Rick's hand was on her face, cupping her cheek, kissing her like she and he were the last people on earth. The palm around her waist trailed slowly downward, cupping her denim covered backside firmly. She gasped outright, falling backwards into his touch. Her back hit the washing machine behind her, sending a metallic thump ringing through the laundromat.

"Ahem," Jackie's voice was like cold water, crashing over them in a wave. They broke apart, glancing up guiltily, flushed, sweaty, and worked up beyond belief. "Just because I can't see you doesn't mean I don't know what's going on over there," Jackie said, exasperated. "Don't be breaking my machines. Finish it up and take that on home."

"Sorry ma'am," it was Rick who answered, through judging by his grin, he wasn't sorry in the least. He helped Michonne to her feet, bending again to scoop her hamper from the ground.

"Hmmm," Jackie shook her head at the pair of them. Michonne looked down guiltily, busying herself with folding the last of her laundry.

Rick stood close to her side, still watching her. His gaze did nothing to cool the heat burning beneath her skin.

"Do you want to come to my house?" he asked, voice low. He leaned close to her. "I'll make you breakfast. We can just talk or-"

She cut him off, kissing him swiftly. "Sounds good," she assured him. Michonne loaded the last of her clothing back into her hamper hastily.

"I'll drive us," Rick offered eagerly, looking as though he'd just heard the best news of his life. He helped her gather both of their belongings, pulling them into his arms as he walked them towards the exit.

They passed by Jackie at the counter, watching them unabashedly as they left. "About time," she muttered, chuckling to herself.

Rick's house was a modest two story, situated not far from the laundromat. He opened the door, hurrying to pry the windows open.

"The cooler isn't going to do much today," he said apologetically, "but I'll turn it on." He headed down the halls, leaving Michonne standing in his foyer. She removed her sandals, walking barefoot along the hardwood floors.

She took in the sight of his living room, the family photos, the toys stacked in a corner, imagining him here with his kids. For a moment, she wondered vaguely what had compelled her to come to this stranger's house.

"What are you hungry for?" Rick reappeared. He'd removed his sunglasses and his hair now flopped free, an artful mess of overgrown curls. "I can fix you a coffee or a tea while you wait. There's lemonade in the fridge." He walked towards his connected kitchen.

"Water is fine," she followed him, watching his bowlegged gait beneath the tight denim of his jeans.

"Look, Michonne," he fixed her with his gaze again as he poured out two glasses of ice water at his counter. "I didn't mean for things to get outta hand like that. I want to get to know you properly," he blushed scarlet as he handed her a glass. "It's just that I've wanted to kiss you for a while and I got a little...overzealous."

She accepted the cup, taking a sip of the refreshing liquid. "I'm not mad at you," she assured him, staring at him over the rim.

"No?" he looked relieved. His eyes dropped to her lips again.

Michonne sat her glass down, shaking her head. "I want to get to know you too," she told him, leaning over the counter. His gaze shifted down her body, heating her right back up.

"We can start with breakfast," he said, moving back from her. "You want eggs? Cereal?" he turned to the fridge. "I can do waffles if you want."

Michonne moved towards him, a half-cocked plan forming in her mind. She took advantage of his position to wrap her arms around his narrow waist. The muscles beneath his clothing tensed at once.

"Breakfast can wait," she said simply.

In half a moment, Rick had spun in her arms, reversing their position. Her back hit the flat part of his refrigerator door. In seconds, his lips were on hers, his hands grabbing at her thighs and ass once more. She ran her hands beneath his t-shirt, tracing the definition she previously only speculated was hiding there. He disengaged just long enough to pull the cotton over his head, tossing it to the floor.

"You sure?" he asked her, doing his best to not stare down her shirt as he crowded her again.

"Yes," she rid herself of her own top, enjoying the way he flushed just to look at her.

She was back in his arms in seconds, being urged backwards out of the kitchen and into the living room. They made it to the couch, not quite reaching the cushions. Rick tugged at the button of her denim shorts, urging them over her rounded hips. He exhaled shakily as he hooked his thumbs into the hem of her panties.

"Black's a good color on you too," he whispered in her ear, dragging them down. He dropped to his knees in front of her. In seconds, she was a moaning, quivering mess.

"Rick," she gasped, liking the sound of his name leaving her mouth, loving the hum he made against her even more. "I want to taste you too."

He groaned outright. "There'll be time for that," he promised her. He dove back in, holding her tighter.

Michonne began to pant, her skin heated and slick. She nearly fell over the couch as she squirmed, torn between pressing harder against him and seeking reprieve from the onslaught of sensation. She curled her fingers into his hair, holding on for dear life. Rick's hand kept her steady against him, leaving her open to him. She began to shake when his talented fingers joined the mix, coaxing a release out of her that nearly sent her legs collapsing from beneath her.

She crumpled against his couch, clinging to the cushions. Rick stood up, catching her. He moved to embrace her, but Michonne had other designs. She allowed herself to sink down to the carpeted floor, dragging her hands along his hardened body as she went. In seconds, she worked his jeans off just enough for her devices. Rick let out a throaty groan when she eagerly began to reciprocate.

"Oh shit," the curse word sent a bolt of arousal through her. The sensation heightened when he began to move, burying his fingers into her long locs to hold on. "Oh shit," he repeated. "Jeez, Michonne."

She smiled around him, doubling her efforts until he began to thrust his hips forward. The cursing came in earnest now, filthy words, panted instructions, compliments that riled her right back up until she ached for him.

"Michonne," he caught her chin, rushing backwards and away from the wet heat of her mouth. "I gotta have you darling," he pulled her to her feet, kissing along her neck and collarbone.

She ran her legs up his, tempted to let him have his way right then and there. "Do you have protection?" she managed to ask.

He froze. "Shit…" he breathed against her. "No, I haven't needed-" he cut himself off.

"We can maybe go get some?" she suggested. Putting her clothes back on seemed a Herculean effort, but if it meant she'd get to take them off again with Rick, she'd suffer it.

"Wait," he turned his head, flushing. "I might have a box. My partner on the force," he blushed even more scarlet. "He gave me some. Just in case."

Michonne smiled, kissing him. "Where are they?" she whispered in his ear.

Rick pulled away, grasping her hand and walking them through the hallways of his house. She held on tightly as he showed her to his bedroom. It was cooler in here with the curtains drawn, but the air was still heavy. He laid her on the center of his bed, staring down at her with a look in his eyes that thrilled her. The anticipation of feeling him nearly killed her as she waited, watching as he rummaged through his sock drawer for the small cardboard box.

"Come here," she beckoned, needing to feel him again.

Rick kissed her as he rejoined her on his bed, slowly, sweetly, as though they had all the time in the world. It was blissful torture to feel him so close, thick and hot against her. Michonne felt as though she were melting, burning away from his touch. His hand stroked her, kneaded and pinched, massaged until she could no longer stand it. Then suddenly, he was inside of her, and rational thought ceased at once.

The stretch of him was exquisite, a delicious push and pull. She held onto his shoulders, digging her nails in, lapping her tongue along whatever part of him she could reach. Rick hips pistoned a rhythm that left her dizzy, moaning and crying out with reckless abandon. Her body responded to his like he was always meant to be there, falling apart around him until he too cried out, collapsing.

They laid against one another, sweat slicked and sated. The cooler kicked on but did not do much, as promised. Michonne did not mind.

"We should add this to our Saturdays," she suggested, smiling lazily at him.

"You can add this to whatever day you want to, Michonne," he chuckled, kissing her on the forehead. "As many times as you want."

"Yeah?" she questioned, rolling over until she was draped atop him.

"Yeah," he was quick to affirm, reaching back to smack her soundly on the ass.

She leaned in, pressing her lips to the shell of his ear before asking, "How many are left in the box?"

He chuckled. "Let me cook you breakfast first, then we can find out. Deal?"

She kissed him properly, open mouthed and deeply. "Deal," she agreed.

Jackie laughed in earnest the next Saturday when they arrived together, hand in hand.

"Took you long enough," she remarked, sipping her tea.


End file.
